Love in the Afterlife
by BlackBird47
Summary: The Murder House eventually bound them all together, but each love  or hate  story had its own beginning. Chad/Patrick, Violet/Tate, Moira, and more...my tribute to the best new show on television!
1. I Know We'll Be Happy Here

A/N- "American Horror Story" is such a great show that I couldn't pick just one set of characters to focus on for this story, so I decided to visit several different couples (one couple for each chapter) the show has presented so far and show how all their stories intertwine in the end—the Murder House eventually bound them all together, but each love (or hate) story started somewhere…

Love in the Afterlife

"_One fire burns out another's burning,_

_One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish."_

_-Romeo and Juliet_

_one_

_chad and patrick_

_los angeles, 2007_

"Really? Sneaking out?" Chad mumbled into his pillow, watching Patrick try to silently get dressed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You struck me as the gay panic type."

"I'm not having gay panic." Patrick sighed, turning to face him. "I know this probably ruins your turning-the-straight-guy fantasy, but you're not the first." Patrick tried not to smile at Chad's stricken expression as he pulled on his white t-shirt. "I just have to be at work in twenty minutes."

Chad yawned, stretching out against the pillows, elegantly laconic in blue silk pajamas. "Remind me. What is it that you do again?"

"I'm an EMT."

"Hot." Chad raised his eyebrows in an approving sort of way. "I was close. I was going to guess personal trainer. Or candy-striper."

Patrick snorted with laughter. "This from the man who introduced himself to me as a 'fluffer.'"

"I liked seeing the fear in your eyes." Chad got to his feet, crossing to Patrick, sliding his hand from Patrick's muscled chest to his stomach and finally to the waist of his jeans, looking at his body almost as if studying it. "You probably won't believe me, but I really don't do this much."

"Feel up your one night stands?" Patrick grinned.

"Have one night stands."

"Yeah, right." Patrick snorted with disbelief.

"I'm serious."

"Aww. Are you saying I'm special?" Patrick smiled.

"There is…something about you."

"And what's that?"

"When you look at me, I know you're not buying any of my bullshit. It's just a nice change. Everybody else smiles and laughs at my jokes, and doesn't give me much more thought, but you…it was like you actually cared to find out what I was working so hard to hide."

"And what were you trying to hide?"

Chad smiled. "Patrick. We've just met."

Patrick laughed, leaning down and kissing Chad briefly. "I get off work at six. Do you want to get dinner later?"

Chad blinked, seemingly surprised. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Well, yeah." Patrick put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "It's like you said…there's something here. I feel like this could go somewhere."

Chad pressed his lips together, almost like he was trying to stop himself from smiling. "Then let's get dinner." He moved his hand to Patrick's shoulder. "And just so you know…I like flowers."

Patrick nodded with a grin. "I'll pick you up at seven."

_two years later_

"You're being ridiculous, babe! He wasn't hitting on me." Patrick sighed, looking over at his boyfriend even while Chad determinedly stared ahead, his hands gripping the car wheel so tightly they had turned completely white as he strained to see the road through a worsening storm.

"Oh, please. Everyone hits on you." Chad rolled his eyes, switching lanes to take the exit for Patrick's house. "And you love it. I just can't believe you would do it right in front of me."

"Chad. I screwed up. Once. And I thought we moved past it. You can't hold one mistake against me for the rest of our lives."

Chad shook his head, taking the exit off the highway for Patrick's apartment. "How am I supposed to move past it if you give the fuck-me face to every single guy we encounter?"

Patrick reached out, his hand over Chad's on the wheel. "Pull over."

"No."

"Honey. Pull over."

Chad sighed heavily, finally pulling off onto a side road and putting the car into park. "There. Happy?"

"What is this really about?" Patrick asked, lowering his hand to Chad's leg and gently rubbing his knee. "Did I freak you out the other night when I was talking about kids?"

Chad rubbed his eyes, letting out a long, weary breath. "It's not the kids thing…I do want kids. I always have."

"Just not with me." Patrick said quietly.

"Just not with someone who's going to be unfaithful again." Chad corrected him. "I love you. I want to have a family with you. I think about it all the time. But I don't want to bring a baby into this situation and then be sitting at home changing diapers while you're out blowing randoms."

"Stop talking about it like it happens all the time!" Patrick hit his hand against the dashboard. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry! I'm sorry I'm not happy with only having sex once a week like you!"

"Oh, so now it's my fault that you cheat?" Chad laughed humorlessly.

"Well…" Patrick trailed off, losing his nerve.

"No, Patrick. Please continue. A little honesty would be refreshing for once."

"Fine." Patrick licked his lips nervously. "When you turn me down every time I want to have sex, it makes me feel like shit. And when some other guy does find me attractive, it feels good. I love you. I want to make love to you. But you act like I'm some kind of slobbering deviant every time I bring up our sex life. Or…lack thereof."

Chad's cheeks flushed red, clearly uncomfortable. "So what would make you happy? Every day? Twice a day? What do you want?"

"You to not sound like sleeping with your boyfriend is a death sentence." Patrick sighed. "It wasn't like this in the beginning. We were so in sync, physically, emotionally, everything."

"I don't need sex to feel connected to you," Chad said quietly.

"Well, I do." Patrick said simply.

The words hung heavily between them, the only sound the steady raindrops against the car and the squeak of the windshield wiper as it slid back and forth.

Finally Chad spoke again. "What if I do make an effort to be more…intimate with you. More often. What do I get in return?"

"Well…" Patrick thought for a moment. "I know you've always wanted to buy a cool old house you could turn into a masterpiece. I'll help you out. I'm really good with construction. You find the house, I'll fix it up, and you decorate it. It'll be amazing, and you can submit the photos to Elle Décor and become the most sought after interior designer on the West Coast, and everything will be great."

Chad smiled, reaching out and brushing Patrick's hair back off his forehead. "My little dreamer. Or, more accurately, my big, ripped dreamer."

"I believe in you."

"I know. You always have." Chad leaned across the center console, kissing Patrick—not a peck on the lips like he usually did, but a real kiss. When they broke apart a long while later, Chad kept his hand on Patrick's cheek. "Now. Let's go home. We can start looking for houses tomorrow."

Patrick smiled brightly, his teeth blindingly white. "Okay. And maybe once we have a house, we can make a family. A real family. Two kids. White picket fence."

"Honey. White picket fences are so tacky. " Chad shook his head, putting the car back into drive and checking behind them to pull out onto the road.

"I'll leave the decorating up to you then." Patrick laughed.

"And I'll leave the heavy lifting and wearing of tool belts up to you." Chad smiled. "My boyfriend the handyman. I can make you iced tea in a pitcher. Watch all the bored suburban housewives drool over you. This is going to be perfect."

"So we're really doing this? The suburban life?" Patrick took a deep breath, his hand resting on Chad's leg.

"I think we're ready. And I'm tired of the city. The gay scene in LA is so exhausting. We already found each other. Maybe it's time to move on."

"Yeah. Definitely." Patrick nodded, feeling a slight stab of worry. He really loved the city. And getting involved with Chad's work would surely cause conflict between them. But Chad wanted a house. He'd been talking about it practically since they met. Restoring something old and crumbling into a place that was beautiful and vibrant had always been Chad's dream. And maybe if he helped him achieve it, Chad would finally come back to him, finally give him the kind of love and passion Patrick still wanted to believe was possible.

This was their new beginning.

"Classic L.A. Victorian. Built in the 1920's by a Dr Charles Montgomery, _the_surgeon to the stars at the time. He had the home made for his wife Norah, exactly to her specifications. This place was truly a labor of love." Their real estate agent, a rather dumpy older woman in a tweed suit, smiled indulgently at them as she showed them around.

"Oh, I like that." Chad smiled, running his hand along the chestnut walls. "Don't you like that, honey?"

"Yeah. It's nice." Patrick shrugged, trying to ignore an eerie feeling of dread that seemed to be choking him ever since he crossed over the threshold of this place.

"Real Tiffany fixtures, too." She pointed at the slightly dusty green glass light fixture over their head.

"You're kidding." Chad raised his eyebrows, staring up at the fixture. "This place has real potential."

"Well, look around. Talk it over. I'll be in the kitchen." The woman winked at them, sensing she might have a big sale as she happily scurried off and left them alone.

Chad turned to Patrick, his eyes practically sparkling with excitement. He crossed to him, hugging Patrick tightly. "I love it. I love it. I love it."

Patrick hugged him back, Chad's enthusiasm when he got on a project infectious as always. "It is pretty cool."

Chad pulled back, laughing. "My man of many words, as always. Do you really like it? Could you picture us raising a family in this place?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I could." Patrick nodded, trying to ignore the guilty feeling in his stomach that always happened when he tried to hide something from his boyfriend. There was something weird about this place, but he couldn't put it into words. And he didn't want to upset Chad—things had been going so much better between them lately, and ever since they started house-hunting, the thrill of the chase seemed to have enlivened Chad to the point that he was like a different person—happy, smiling, and all over Patrick, especially when they talked about their new project before they went to bed. Patrick didn't want to mess up any of that, so he knew it was easier to just say nothing and play along with whatever Chad wanted.

"I love you." Chad put his hand on Patrick's cheek, kissing him. "I know we'll be happy here."

"I love you too."

Chad took Patrick's hand, leading him into the kitchen and over to the nervous realtor.

"Well…what do you boys think?" She clasped her hands together.

"We'll take it." Chad said without a moment's hesitation, Patrick smiling along dutifully beside him.

"Wonderful! Let's sign some papers, and get you into your dream house."

As Patrick and Chad signed the papers, they didn't notice a dark-haired girl holding her mother's hand as they stood in the yard next door, watching Patrick and Chad through the kitchen window.

"What are they doing in our house?" Addy asked.

"It's not our house anymore, Adelaide. You know that." Constance said wearily.

Addy looked up at her mother, a small smile on her lips. "They're going to die in there."

"Hush, child." Constance almost looked like she was smothering a smile as well, taking a long drag off her cigarette and leading Addy back inside.

A/N- I love reviews! Next time, Violet and Tate…


	2. The Man in the Rubber Mask

A/N- Thanks for all the great reviews guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter about Violet and Tate- and just for clarification's sake, this one follows my personal theory about the connection Tate and Rubber Man—I have no clue what's really going to happen on the show, and this could be proven wrong in a week, but if they give a different explanation, this story will just go AU. And because this part of the story gets a little more involved, it will be two chapters. Hope you enjoy!

_two_

_2011 _

_violet and tate_

"Hey, Leah?" Violet looked up from the textbook she was pretending to read in the school library.

"Yeah?" Leah looked up from doing the exact same thing. They were sitting together at one of the back corner tables, supposedly working on their joint history project.

"Can I ask you something? It's kind of personal." Violet licked her lips nervously.

Leah shrugged. "Sure."

Violet lowered her voice. "You and Ryan…have sex all the time, right?"

Leah grinned, tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder, and leaning closer to speak in a whisper. "Totally. I'm telling you, Vi, college guys are the way to go. They're so much better in bed than these little pathetic high school boys. Last weekend, no lie, he went down on me and I literally blacked out. I mean, we were both really high at the time, but still…it was so awesome."

Violet laughed weakly. "Wow."

"I know." Leah smiled proudly before her eyebrows went together with suspicion. "But wait. You're my good little virgin friend. Why do you want to know? You need some good wanking material?"

"No, it's not that. Besides…" Violet sighed heavily, examining her split ends and saying something so quietly Leah couldn't understand her.

"What?"

"I said, I'm not exactly a virgin anymore." Violet hissed.

Leah's eyes lit up. "No shit? Vi! Who is he?"

"Just…some guy."

"Does he go here?"

"No. He's older too."

Leah's eyes narrowed. "Not that freak from the basement, right?"

"No, of course not." Violet lied quickly, deciding to tell the partial truth. "He's one of my dad's patients. We started hanging out after one of his sessions, and it just kind of…went from there."

Leah laughed merrily. "You little slut! I love it!" She closed her textbook, scooting her chair closer to Violet. "So how was he?"

"Umm…" Violet twisted her hair through her fingers.

Leah cringed. "That bad, huh? What's the problem? Little prick?"

"No. No, it's not that." Violet said defensively. "It's just like, every time we're making out and stuff, everything's really good, but as soon as he really…" she trailed off awkwardly.

"Puts it in?" Leah supplied helpfully.

"Yeah." Violet's cheeks turned bright red, but she kept talking. "As soon as we start to actually have sex, he loses it in like fifteen seconds."

"Like he comes too soon or he can't stay hard?" Leah asked curiously, sounding just as comfortable with this topic as most people would be with discussing the lunch menu.

"The second thing." Violet mumbled. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"Depends. What do you do when it happens? Like just lie there?" 

"Yeah, kind of."

"Well, hello. When it comes to sex, you should never just lie there. Go down on him if it happens again. Or at least give him like a hand job or something. Help him finish a few times and maybe he'll be less freaked. And give each other oral before you have sex. There's a reason it's called third base—you can't just go from making out to hitting a grand slam."

"So we're really running with the baseball metaphor here." Violet grinned, trying to sound flippant, deciding not to reveal that she'd never given a guy a blow job and would have no idea what she was doing. But hey—it couldn't be that complicated. Leah was pretty famous for her oral skills, and she wasn't exactly a rocket scientist.

Leah shrugged. "Mock me all you want, but you'll be thanking me soon. No man on this planet turns down a blow job, and once it's over, they like worship you. He'll be so hot for you after that his little problem will be a thing of the past."

"Okay." Violet nodded in her usual businesslike manner. "I'll try that. Thanks."

"Anytime." Leah shrugged. "And on Monday, I expect full details, you little sex monkey."

"Whatever." Violet laughed.

"So, dysfunctions aside, is he hot?"

"Yeah." Violet's cheeks turned slightly pink. "Definitely."

"Who does he look like? Give me a celebrity."

"He looks like Kurt Cobain." Violet grinned.

"Who?" Leah's brow furrowed with confusion.

"Girls?" Their teacher rudely interrupted. "Are we staying on task?"

"Of course, Mrs. Ryers." Leah flashed her brightest, prettiest smile, Violet smothering a laugh into her sleeve. "We're the task masters."

"Good. Because I'm giving you and Violet the first time slot for presentations on Monday." Mrs. Ryers smiled tightly before walking away.

Leah's fake smile faded the moment their teacher turned away. "Bitch. Just because she never gets laid, we're not allowed to talk about anything interesting?"

Violet wrinkled her nose. "She has kids. She must have gotten laid a couple times."

"Gross." Leah reluctantly opened her textbook again. "Okay. So who the hell fought in World War I?"

"Hey, beautiful." Tate met Violet at the bottom of the basement stairs as usual, giving her that sweet half-grin he always did when they met up at night after her parents were asleep.

"Hey." Violet took his face in her hands, kissing him, oddly purposeful, Tate stumbling back slightly at the force of her embrace.

He kissed her back, but looked nervous when they broke apart, quick to change the subject. "So do you want to go upstairs? I know you've been wanting to show me those _Walking__Dead_ DVDS—"

"No. Fuck zombies. I want to be with you, tonight. For real." Violet said boldly.

Tate's face fell. "Violet…"

"Come on, Tate. We can't just ignore this forever."

"I don't want to talk about it." Tate mumbled.

"Fine. We don't have to talk." Violet swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Playing any kind of seductive role rang totally false to her, but she really did want to fix things with Tate. Were you supposed to tell someone you were going to go down on them, or just like…go for it? Shit. She should have asked Leah more questions. "Just kiss me," she finally said, hoping everything else would just happen naturally.

But that was clearly not the case. Tate kissed her, but was obviously holding back, his arms at his sides. Violet sighed with frustration, pushing him back up against the stairwell, her hands tangling in his wavy blond hair. Tate finally seemed to come around, wrapping his arms around her as he finally, really kissed her back, Violet making a small, content sound at the feeling of his tongue tangling with hers. She started unbuttoning her blue flannel shirt, Tate eagerly helping her slide it off her shoulders, but when she moved her hands down to his jeans, undoing the top button and unzipping his fly, Tate suddenly stopped her, his hands over hers. "Don't, Vi. Don't."

"What is your problem?" she cried, exasperated.

"Can't we just hang out without all this bullshit? Why is sex so fucking important?" Tate shook his head, clearly exhausted.

Violet ran her hands through her hair, looking close to pulling it out. "Because it _is_! Because that's what people in a relationship do! Because you should be able to get hard for your fucking girlfriend, Tate!"

"I love you, Violet. I really do. And if you love me back, you'd believe me. Not make me prove it."

"Yeah, whatever." Violet spat, shoving him away from her. They had never said 'I love you' before, and she couldn't believe he was doing it now, in the middle of a fight. "I'm tired of this bullshit. I'm going to bed. Don't follow me."

She stormed out of the basement, leaving Tate alone at the bottom of the stairs, his shoulders sagging in defeat. Tate sank down to the ground, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall, completely oblivious to the fact that a man in a black rubber suit had been watching their little lover's tableau all the while from his darkened vantage point in the basement.

"You poor girl…" the man muttered to himself, laughing quietly. "You poor, lonely girl." He slipped back into the shadows, and when Tate finally opened his eyes, wiping frustrated tears off his cheeks, the man was gone.

As he hid out in the basement, Tate could hear footsteps on the second floor landing, but he figured it was just Violet, pacing as she often did when she was pissed.

But he was wrong. Violet was in her room, laying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling, her eyes hot and stinging with tears as well, unaware of a black gloved hand turning the doorknob to her room.

_I__can__'__t__believe__I__went__on__birth__control__for__that__asshole.__I__guess__I__'__ll__just__never,__ever__have__good__sex.__I__thought__only__old__guys__had__this__problem.__I__should__have__said__I__loved__him__back._

Violet sat up in bed when the sound of her bedroom door opening interrupted her crazily careening thoughts.

"I told you not to follow—" Her voice died in her throat when she saw that a man wearing the black rubber fetish suit her dad had found in the attic was standing in her doorway.

Violet sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Tate, it was funny once. Now it's just weird."

The man didn't anything, stepping into the room and closing and locking the door behind him, staring at Violet unblinkingly through the holes in the mask. Violet shifted slightly on her bed. The intense way he was looking at her was making her very hot under her clothes. She swallowed hard, feeling like her heart was pounding in her throat. This was not the Tate she'd left crying in the basement ten minutes ago. Maybe it wasn't even him.

Violet got to her feet, wondering why she didn't feel afraid. "Tate?"

The man unzipped the back of the black mask, taking it off to reveal Tate's exact features—the same dark brown eyes, the same curly blond hair, everything. But there was something different about him now. He looked older. Stronger. It was like looking at her boyfriend with obvious mistakes. He even looked taller somehow.

This new, strange version of Tate stepped closer to her, his hands resting on her arms. "It's me, Violet."

He sounded like Tate, but with an unfamiliar deeper tone to his voice. Violet looked up at him, the man with Tate's face staring back at her so intently that Violet felt like her knees were going to buckle under his dark gaze. She cleared her throat, finally finding her voice. It had to be Tate. There was no other explanation. "So we have a fight, and your solution is to put on a fetish suit and sneak into my bedroom?"

"I thought you deserved some fun. For putting up with me." He smiled, leaning down and kissing her, his hand possessively gripping the back of her head. Violet rested her hands on his chest, kissing him back, struck again with the feeling that something was off. He was kissing her like he was trying to devour her, and it was hot in a weird, dominating kind of way, but it wasn't how Tate had ever kissed her before.

Maybe he was just trying something different. Maybe he was finally trying to fix their problem. Or maybe it just felt good to finally believe Tate wanted her as much as she wanted him. Violet didn't really care why this was happening, she was just glad it was. Eventually they ended up on her bed, and he climbed on top of her, lowering her hand to his huge erection, Violet's eyes widening with surprise. He had never gotten hard this easily before. Maybe this was their moment. Maybe they were finally going to get this right.

"You're going to feel it this time," he mumbled against her mouth, kissing her neck, his cold gloved hand sliding under her shirt to massage her breast. It felt good, but it wasn't what she wanted. "Come on," Violet muttered impatiently, sliding down her pajama pants and underwear. "I know, I know. You're dying for it," he mumbled, undoing the part of the suit that still separated them and entering her with a hard, thrusting motion that made Violet gasp with surprise. Her mind went oddly blank after that moment, clutching the slick black material covering his shoulders and closing her eyes as he moved against her, both breathing hard as it finally lasted long enough for Violet to lose herself in the moment. He didn't say anything, he barely even looked at her, but Violet didn't care. This was the way she'd always hoped sex would feel— out of control, powerful, all-consuming—and just when she thought there was no way it could get better, a final rush of pleasure flooded through her body with such force that Violet cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as he grunted with release against her shoulder.

Afterwards, he rolled off of her, the black suit squeaking against her sweaty skin as they moved apart. Violet stared up at the ceiling, her chest still rising and falling rapidly.

"Tate?" she finally spoke, pulling her sheets up over her chest, her voice strangely small in a room that now seemed cavernous.

"Yes?"

"I love you." Violet turned onto her side, leaning over and kissing him, wanting to be closer to him, almost needing to be closer to him in the hazy afterglow of her first orgasm.

"I love you too, baby," he said with a disconcerting lack of emotion, moving away from her to do the rubber suit back up. "But I should probably go. You made enough noise to wake up the whole house, and I don't think your parents would be too thrilled to see me here." He gave her a smug smile. "Now you have something to think about when you touch yourself. You're welcome."

Violet blinked in surprise. Tate never joked around about stuff like this. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." He shrugged.

"You know, you can stay if you want. My parents are really heavy sleepers. They won't wake up. We could watch those DVDs." Violet sat up, not wanting him to leave.

"Maybe some other time." He stood up, picking up the mask from the floor and zipping it back into place.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Violet called after him, inwardly cringing at how needy she sounded.

"Sure. Tomorrow." He left without another word, Violet leaning back against her pillows and trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened.

"Tate?" Violet walked outside to the backyard the next afternoon, a light rain falling around the stone courtyard, Violet fiddling with her sleeves nervously as she looked around for him.

"Hey." Tate stepped out from behind one of the columns, looking much more like his old self in a green sweater and jeans, a downtrodden expression on his face that expressed none of the swaggering confidence he'd had in her room last night.

"Hey." Violet smiled a little shyly. Why didn't he look nervous? She felt like everything was different between them after last night, but Tate just looked depressed.

"What'd you want to talk about?" Tate put his hands in his pockets, kicking at one of the rocks in the courtyard.

Violet looked around, making sure they were alone before she stepped closer to him. "I just…I wanted you to know, I didn't just say that I loved you last night just because the sex was good. I mean, it was more than good, actually. It was amazing. But that's not why I said it."

Tate looked at her like she had just grown a third eye. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Last night."

"Okay, I can't tell if you're on something or just being mean."

"Tate, we had sex last night!"

Tate's eyes narrowed, trying to determine if she was playing some kind of cruel joke. "No, we didn't. I said I loved you, and you blew me off."

"I'm not talking about in the basement. I'm talking about later…in my room."

"I never came up to your room last night."

Violet and Tate looked at each other, both so confused by what the other person was saying that they couldn't even formulate a reaction for a moment.

"Did you have sex with another guy last night? Is this like…your way of telling me? Because it sucks." Tate stepped away from her, his dark eyes flooding with hurt.

"It was you, Tate," Violet said weakly, suddenly feeling like she was going to be sick. It was clear from the look on his face that she was wrong. "H-He looked just like you. He sounded just like you. Who else could it have been?"

"Ask her." They both jumped at the sound of Moira's voice, turning to find her listening to their conversation from the back door, Tate seeing the maid as a young, beautiful seductress and Violet seeing her as an old, embittered woman.

"Who?" Violet and Tate said in unison, confused enough to not even care that Moira had been eavesdropping.

Moira tilted her head towards Constance's house, Violet and Tate turning to see her big white Cadillac pulling into the driveway. Tate shook his head vehemently. Ever since Violet had told him the truth about Addy's death, he'd been avoiding his mother like the plague. "No. No fucking way. I told you, Vi, I'm not talking to her again. Ever."

"Well, then I'll do the talking." Violet marched towards Constance's driveway, surprising her as she stepped out of her car.

"Violet, angel!" Constance smiled falsely. "You here to ruin more of my children's lives?"

"Shut up and listen to me." Violet slammed the car door shut, making Constance jump. "You owe me some answers. Me and your son."

Constance laughed airily. "What are you talking—"

"I want to know about Tate's brother," Violet said, everything starting to make a sick kind of sense.

All the color drained from Constance's face, but she tried to keep a smile on her face. "I don't know what you mean—"

"No more bullshit! The truth!" Violet shouted, her voice shaking.

Constance let out a long breath, digging in her purse for cigarettes. "Tate's brother is gone. We had him sent away, years ago…"

"Well, he's back." Violet said simply, trying to keep her voice steady as the full implications of what had happened last night started to sink in. "And now you're going to tell us everything."

Constance held out a cigarette to Violet. "Go ahead, honey. You're going to need it."

A/N- To be continued! Next chapter, Tate and his brother meet again and Violet's fate at Murder House is sealed…I love reviews!


	3. Funny Old House, Don't You Think?

A/N- Wow— this show just keeps getting crazier and crazier! I'm following my evil twin theory in this particular story because it's fun and I still want to think Violet and Tate could somehow get a happy ending, and isn't that the whole point of fanfiction? Anything's possible in land…hope you all enjoy!

Love in the Afterlife

Chapter Three

"Now talk." Violet stood in front of Constance, her arms crossed over her chest. They were in her father's office, Constance sitting in the chair for the patients during therapy. Tate was leaning against the doorframe, barely inside the room, and Moira was dusting off the shelves with a smirk on her lips.

"What is it exactly you want to know, child?" Constance sighed, taking a long drag off her cigarette.

Violet gave her a look, and Constance blew out a cloud of smoke, rolling her eyes. "Fine. Time for some of my truth to be known." Constance delicately crossed her legs at her ankles. "It's a rather long story. Perhaps you two should take a seat."

"I'll stand." Violet shook her head.

Constance turned to Tate, but he just stood there, his eyes oddly empty and emotionless, staring blankly at a spot over her head. Constance felt her heart twist with concern for her boy, and what this could do to him. But Violet was right. He deserved to know the truth, after all these years.

"My first child only lived to her first birthday. It was an unspeakable loss, and I didn't know if I would ever recover. Then my Adelaide was born a year after, and you're all aware of the difficulties she presented for me, especially in my state of mourning for my firstborn. But some time after those dark days, when the doctor told me I was carrying not one, but two precious twin babies in my belly, I thought I was finally moving towards the light. They were born on a beautiful summer afternoon—June 2, 1977. The first boy, Eli, came out strong and screaming. But when Tate came after, he was small. Sickly. They didn't even let him leave the hospital for his first month of living. Looking back now, I realize that I may have been so caught up with Tate's afflictions that Eli suffered for attention throughout their young life."

Constance took another puff on her cigarette, pausing for breath. Violet looked at Tate, trying to see if any of this was registering emotionally or bringing up old memories, but he looked just as solemn and expressionless as he had when his mother started talking.

"I hate to admit it now, but Eli was so strong that I rather thought he could fend for himself while I tended to his twin brother and sister. Tate and Eli were physically identical in every way, but if you spent any time at all with them, you would immediately realize that they couldn't be more different."

Constance looked at her son. "Tate, you were always my little dreamer. So sweet and quiet. So good to your mother. But Eli…he was a handful. Always plotting. Always planning. I started to sense there was something very wrong with that boy. Nothing physically—he was always the model of health and beauty. But there was something twisted in his mind that all the love in the world couldn't straighten out."

Tate snorted derisively at the idea of Constance giving them "all the love in the world," but she chose to ignore him, going on.

"He was always fond of his sister, but you, Tate…he always thought you were my favorite, and he hated you for it. He started saying things…strange things like, why would I need two boys that looked the same? Why didn't I just pick one and get rid of the other? I was scared for you, Tate. The way he would look at you…you were just little boys, hardly five years old…but I started to fear for your life. One night, I heard Eli laughing and splashing in the bathtub, but I couldn't find you anywhere. The door to the bathroom was locked, and I had your father get it open. Eli was holding you under the water in the bathtub, trying to drown you. I still remember your little legs thrashing in the air…" Constance trailed off. "He'd killed small creatures before…I was always finding…pieces of things in the backyard. It seemed…it seemed to me that you would be next if I did nothing."

"Get to the point." Tate startled them by speaking up. "You said you sent him away?"

"Yes. Your father and I took him for some psychological tests, and they determined that he had a disorder. Antisocial personality, they said. A nice euphemism for psychopath, I'm told. They told us it would be better…safer…for everyone if Eli was put in special care."

"Like a mental institution?" Violet asked.

"Yes, my dear." Constance tapped her cigarette against the ashtray on the side table, her hands shaking slightly. "A mental institution."

"So then what happened?" Violet pressed.

Constance looked fleetingly at Tate. "Years passed. You seemed relieved he was gone, dear. Your medical issues even began to abate. We made a family decision not to mention him anymore in front of you…to lessen your stress. But Addy was distraught. I would take her with me to visit him, and sometimes she would tell him about the bullies at school. It enraged Eli that he couldn't protect her. The nurses told me he kept trying to escape, saying he wanted justice for his sister. But they always caught him. Until one day…" Constance swallowed hard, her eyes welling up with tears, Violet disgusted with the fact that she seemed to be relishing the drama of it all.

"That horrible morning, the worst day of my life, it was your last day of junior year, Tate. Addy was very insistent on the fact that she wanted to prepare breakfast for you. But after you ate your breakfast, you became very ill and couldn't go into school that day. And although I didn't know it…your brother…went in your place."

Violet's breath caught in her throat, finally understanding what had happened at Westfield High, and why Tate had been so confused by the Dead Breakfast Club at the beach. He hadn't killed them. His brother had. And Constance was about to tell him the truth—that not only was Tate dead, but also that he had died for nothing.

Tate shook his head, confused and scared. "Stop. Stop talking."

"He killed those vile children at your high school for the things they'd done to Addy, but you were the one who died for his sins, Tate."

"No. That's crazy. I'm not…there's no way…" Tate sputtered.

Constance stood up, walking towards him. "The police found you in your room, but the true killer, your brother was long gone. They shot you dead for the things your brother had done. It broke my heart, and I couldn't stand the thought of losing you, so I had you put to rest here, in this house, so that I could see you again."

"Shut up!" Tate banged his fist against the wall.

"The truth has been inside you all along, baby. But when you died, you forgot it because it hurt too much. But you have to remember it now. Let yourself remember what happened."

"You're lying! Nothing happened to me!" Tate shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.

Constance grabbed his face with both hands. "Then why do you think you can only leave this house on Halloween? You're one of the spirits of this ghastly place, and somewhere deep inside, you know it. You have to accept what happened to you, Tate. You have to accept it so you can cross over. I wanted you to hear this from Violet, not me…"

Tate pushed his mother away, turning to Violet. "Wait. She told you all this?"

"Not about your brother."

"But everything else?"

Violet didn't say anything, determinedly staring at the floor.

Tate shook his head. "Great. That's great. You're both out of your fucking minds." He turned and walked away, up the stairs, trying to ignore Constance calling after him—

"Baby, where are you gonna go?"

Violet sank down in her father's chair across from Constance, looking right at Tate's mother and speaking with cold finality. "I think you should leave now."

"I don't see why you're so upset." Constance shrugged. "I thought you'd be happy to hear that your ghostly beau was wrongly accused." She flicked the end of her cigarette against the ashtray before stubbing it out. "Or did you find Tate more…exciting when he was dangerous?" She laughed, the high airy laugh of a onetime socialite. "You picked the wrong brother if you wanted a bad boy, honey. Tate's got the nerve of a baby kitten."

"Oh, shut up." Violet snapped. "I am so sick of you saying stuff like that about him. Just because he's not some fucking psychopath, that makes him weak?"

"Watch your mouth."

"Go fuck yourself." Violet got to her feet, Moira snickering appreciatively as Violet crossed her arms over her chest, glaring down at Constance. "You still think you're the hottest shit in town, don't you? Well, I'm sorry to break this to you, but it's actually not 1953. Lose the bizarro accent, take your reject couch upholstery clothes to Goodwill, and get another chemical peel—maybe you'll get lucky and the thousandth one will be free."

Constance got to her feet, smoothing down her green printed dress before she met Violet's eyes with unmistakable menace. "Fine. You've made your point. I'll take my leave. You can deal with my boys all by yourself." Her eyes slid down to the neckline of Violet's Alice in Chains t-shirt. "Though why both of them want to get under that training bra so badly is beyond me."

"Both of them? What are you talking about?" Violet's eyes narrowed. "I'm with Tate."

"Not last night, you weren't."

Violet blinked in shock. "Excuse me?"

"I know my boy. Tate is still an innocent." Constance shrugged. "And you are not. Not anymore. I know the signs, honey. Look at how pink your cheeks are getting, even now." She reached out for Violet's cheek, Violet jerking away as Constance continued. "You spread those skinny little legs for someone last night, but it wasn't Tate. It's almost Shakespearian, don't you think? Two brothers, violent enemies, switching places to fool their poor virgin princess into relinquishing her—"

"Get. Out." Violet said each word with so much venomous fury that Constance finally relented, laughing softly as she sashayed away, muttering to no one in particular— "Funny old house, don't you think?"

Violet looked at Moira when they were alone, Moira having fully abandoned the pretense of cleaning to just blatantly eavesdrop.

"What do you think I should do?" Violet asked, desperately wanting some parental advice and not really sure where else to get it.

Moira didn't hesitate. "You should leave. Leave this house before it destroys you too."

Violet licked her lips, silent for a long moment. She thought about never seeing Tate again. Really leaving this house behind. Finally, she shook her head in a moment of sudden decision. "No. No way. Tate needs me. And I think…I think I belong here. With him."

"I never figured you for a romantic." Moira sighed, her face falling. "I thought you were a smart girl."

"Haven't you ever been in love?" Violet asked.

Before Moira could reply, there was a crashing noise from Violet's bedroom. Moira pursed her lips primly. "I believe that's your cue."

Violet didn't hesitate, turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, leaving Moira alone to stare out the window and think that youth was wasted on the anemic rumpled young.

"Tate?" Violet looked around her ransacked room, closing the door behind her. "Come on, I know you're in here. Just talk to me."

There was no reply. Violet sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Okay, truth? Identical twins having identical everything is apparently bullshit. Yours is way bigger than your brother's."

"Yeah, right." Tate grumbled, suddenly appearing next to her window. "You're just trying to make me feel better."

"I swear." Violet smiled tentatively, walking towards him.

Tate shook his head. "You said it was amazing. With him."

"The only reason it was good—"

"Amazing. You said amazing." Tate corrected her.

"Whatever." Violet sighed. "The only reason I said that is because I thought it was you."

"You didn't even wonder if anything was up?"

"I just thought you were…like trying something different." Violet cleared her throat, suddenly deciding a little white lie wouldn't be the worst thing in this particular situation. "And I mean, it wasn't even really that great."

Tate's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Then why'd you look so happy when you saw me today?"

"I don't know." Violet crossed her arms. "I guess I just really wanted it to be you last night."

Tate looked down at her. "Why?"

Violet licked her lips, looking up at him. "I thought it was hot. Like us all pissed off and fighting in the basement, and then..."

"Oh." Tate nodded. "Like in the movies, where they're yelling at each other and then suddenly they're making out?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I'm still pretty mad at you." Tate pointed out.

"Cool. Let's try it." Violet leaned forward, kissing him, her hands clutching the collar of his sweater. Tate kissed her back for a brief moment, Violet's grip tightening on his collar as she pulled him closer, their chests pressed up against each other as the kiss grew deeper.

But suddenly, Tate turned his face away, letting out a long breath. "Wait, Violet. Wait."

"What's wrong?"

"You don't really believe any of that other stuff my mom said, right?"

Violet swallowed hard, not even sure if she was lying now. "N-No. No, of course not. I mean, that's crazy. Your mom's really old. Possibly senile. That's why I didn't tell you what she told me. Because I knew it was all bullshit."

"Yeah. I get it." Tate nodded with a slightly forced smile, still looking vastly unsure. "But I mean…there are ghosts here. We've both seen them."

"You're not a ghost, Tate." Violet laughed nervously, suddenly realizing if any of it was true, she really, really didn't want him to remember. She thought about what the freaky medium had said about Tate "crossing over"—if that happened, maybe he'd be gone forever. Maybe she'd never see him again.

"It's weird though…" Tate said quietly. "Whenever my mom was telling that story…some of it almost sounded…familiar or something."

"What do you mean, familiar?"

"I don't know." Tate looked lost in thought for a moment. "Sometimes it's like I'm having someone else's thoughts. Doesn't weird shit like that happen with twins?"

Violet shrugged, wanting to change the subject. "Maybe."

"What if she's telling the truth?" Tate looked at Violet, his voice desperate. "What if I'm really…dead?"

Violet struggled for a response, feeling like her protests were getting weaker and weaker. "But…all the ghosts we've seen still have the injuries that killed them. Like the nurses. You're not covered in bullet holes. So there's no way."

Tate looked back down, starting to unbutton his blue plaid shirt with slightly shaking hands. But suddenly he stopped. "I can't. I can't do it." He stared down at the floor. "Violet, I think…I think I'm starting to remember it. All of it."

"No, Tate, you're fine. Look." Violet shook her head, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and pulling it open to reveal the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. "No bullet holes."

"I thought it sounded like a freaking army coming up the stairs. Mom was crying. Begging them to leave me alone." Tate was speaking in a strange monotone, like part of him had gone somewhere else.

"Tate. Look at me." Violet took his face in her hands. "Don't. Stay here with me."

"It was like something out of a movie."

"Stop it." Violet shook him, terrified that the moment Tate said it out loud, he would be gone. "Don't say anything else."

"Vi, I have to. Don't you get it? I'm stuck. I can't leave this house. I can't really be with you. It's like I've been in a dream, for seventeen years. Maybe all of this—you coming to this house, my mom telling me the truth, Eli coming back—maybe it all happened to wake me up, finally."

"No." Violet's voice broke, "Don't. Don't leave me."

"Violet—"

"I love you."

Tate let out a sharp breath like she had just punched him in the stomach. There was a long moment of silence between them. "You love me?" he finally asked, his voice quiet.

Violet nodded, and suddenly Tate crossed to her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her hard. Violet's hands slid up his back to his shoulders, wanting to keep him close, wanting to keep him here with her, wanting to be with him more than she'd ever wanted anything. After a moment, she slid his button-down shirt and sweater off his broad shoulders, Tate tugging her t-shirt over her head and unhooking her bra before kissing her again, the feeling of skin against skin making them feel like they could just disappear inside each other, into the house, forever.

They hurriedly fumbled with the rest of their clothes until there was nothing left between them as they lay back on the bed, doing their now familiar dance of getting into position with Tate on top of her, but this time, he didn't look nervous and she wasn't worrying about what was going to happen next. They just stopped thinking, and everything around them went oddly quiet for a moment. But when Tate entered her, Violet's breath catching in her throat as her eyes slid closed, it was like the floor beneath them suddenly shifted, the walls around them making a strange, groaning noise that almost sounded like the house was discontent.

But they didn't stop or even look around to see what was happening. There was no way they were going to risk never being able to finish what they started. There were so wrapped up in each other that both Violet and Tate found themselves just dramatic enough to be convinced that the world was moving and changing only for them. Violet's hands clutched his bare shoulders tightly as they both started to breathe harder, the headboard creaking as Tate reached up and gripped it for the balance as he moved against her. Minutes felt like seconds once they were finally, really together, and time passed without either of them really noticing that the house was still creaking and shifting in apparent protest. When Tate slid his hand under her knee, pulling it up against her chest, she let out a soft moan, wrapping her other leg around his, Tate muttering her name against her neck, the moment of climax surprising them both, books falling off her shelves around them as Violet cried out and Tate buried his head in her shoulder with a groan of release, collapsing into her arms afterwards.

Violet closed her eyes, breathing him in, shaking like a leaf in the aftermath. It took her a moment to realize that there was something wrong. The glass in her window was vibrating, the floorboards rattling. "Tate…something's happening…" Violet whispered.

"Oh, shit…holy shit…" Tate rolled off of her, both realizing suddenly that they (and her sheets) were covered in so much blood that it was pooling in the middle of the mattress.

"What's going on—" Violet's brow furrowed with confusion, looking down and suddenly stopping short. "Tate…" He looked down as well, both seeing that he was suddenly gushing blood from what looked like fresh bullet wounds to his chest. Not knowing what else to do, Violet instinctively pressed her hands to one of the wounds, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. "You're going to be okay, everything's going to be fine…"

Tate shook his head, the room shifting again with a horrible crash, a jagged crack spreading down her window before it shattered, her closet door falling off it's hinges, hanging crooked, but neither Tate or Violet looking away from each other. Even soaked with blood, he looked bizarrely more peaceful than she had ever seen him. "Violet, I remember. I remember everything."

"No, wait, I'll get help." Violet refused to hear him, crying out with frustration as his blood spilled between her fingers.

"Don't." Tate covered her hands with his. "I'm not afraid anymore."

"Tate, please—"

"I will love you forever." Tate raised a bloody hand to her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb, his mouth curving into a small smile before the house's foundation seemed to crack in half beneath them, her bed sliding forward with violent force, Violet losing her balance and falling off the bed and onto her hands and knees on the floor, still tangled up in her sheets as she looked up.

"Tate?" She clutched the sheets to her chest, scrambling to her feet and looking around her suddenly empty room. "_Tate_?"

Violet realized with a small shock that the sheets weren't covered in blood anymore. And neither was she. There was no sign of what had happened only moments before. And no sign of Tate ever being there at all.

"Come back!" she screamed, furiously racing around her room, calling his name, stumbling over the wreckage, throwing open every door and searching everywhere before collapsing in a corner, wrapping the sheets around her, burying her head in her hands, her thin shoulders shaking as she started to cry, tears of confusion and fear and a sudden, crushing loneliness.

"Violet?" Her mother burst through the door to her room, chalk white and clutching a bloody towel to her forehead.

"I'm over here." Violet choked out.

"Are you all right?" Vivien raced to her side, crouching down beside Violet and wrapping her arms around her. "Oh, honey, you're shaking. It's okay. Apparently earthquakes happen almost every day in California. Marcy told me to expect this eventually. I was taking a nap downstairs and I think something must have fallen on me."

"You're bleeding." Violet pulled back to look at her mother, tears still slipping down her cheeks.

"Oh, don't look so worried, honey, I'm fine. It looks worse than it is." Vivien waved her off. "What about you? Are you all right?" She looked at Violet with a slightly confused expression. "Why aren't you wearing any clothes?"

"I…I was going to take a shower." Violet lied quickly, wiping off her cheeks. "And then the room started shaking and stuff started falling off the walls…"

"I'm just glad you're okay." Vivien kissed her head, seeming to buy her story. "I'm going to go call your father and tell him we're all right. And then I'll have Moira come clean up all of this glass. Be really careful walking around, honey. Get dressed and put on some shoes so you don't cut yourself."

"Okay." Violet said, her voice sounding odd and unfamiliar, almost lifeless, to her own ears.

Her mother smiled reassuringly at her, leaving the room. Violet leaned her head back against the wall, feeling suddenly nauseous, like her head was literally spinning. Too much had just happened for her to even begin to process it all. She just looked around her room, not even wanting to blink in case she missed him, waiting for him to come back like he always did. She heard her mother downstairs on the phone with her father—"Ben, of course I'm sure there was an earthquake. We both felt it, me and Violet, the house is a wreck—don't you dare start calling me crazy again—"

Violet just tuned them out. She didn't even care if the earthquake had happened anywhere outside their house. Nothing would surprise her at this point. Who knows. Maybe the house was just pissed at her for being with Tate or something.

When it started to grow dark outside, Violet still hadn't moved. She heard the thud of low, heavy heels on the wooden floorboards outside her room, Violet just staring at the opposite wall as Moira crossed over the threshold, broom and dustpan in hand.

"Miss Harmon, are you injured?" Moira asked, sounding weary from already cleaning up the rest of the house.

"I'm fine." Violet replied stiffly.

"Then you need to get up. Make yourself decent." Moira started to sweep up the shards of broken glass under her window. "He's not coming back, dear. I know this house like the back of my hand, and he's not here. Not anymore."

Violet turned to look at her, her eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare. "You don't know shit."

"No need to be unpleasant. I'm not the one who released him. You are." Moira shrugged.

Violet's eyes burned with tears again, but she refused to let them show. There was nothing to cry about. Moira was wrong. She didn't know everything. And she definitely didn't know Tate.

He would come back.

A/N- Hey, sorry, I'm having so much fun with this story I didn't get to everything in this chapter! Up next—Eli returns, Violet enlists the help of her friendly neighborhood medium to try and see Tate again, we find out what happened when Chad and Patrick woke up after being murdered, and what the heck is the story with Constance and Larry anyway? All to come, dear readers! Reviews are my drug…:)


	4. You're Always So Good To Me

A/N- Thanks for the reviews guys! I can't believe we're entering into the home stretch of first season…it's been quite a ride! Thanks for sticking with my story or finding it along the way- hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Love in the Afterlife

Chapter Four

"I'm so sorry, Violet. I'm not picking up anything." Billie Dean let go of Violet's hands, opening her eyes.

Violet shook her head, her voice strained with frustration. "But this is your job. To contact spirits. I don't understand. Why can't you find him?"

"In my experience, when it's this difficult to contact someone, it's usually because they don't want to be found. You should be happy. Tate's soul isn't in trapped here in torment anymore."

Violet leaned back against the side of the staircase in the basement. "So that's it? There's no way you can find him?"

"Why do you want to find him so badly? You fulfilled your destiny, Violet. You helped him cross over. Let that be the end of it."

"What if he's not in a better place? What if he's in trouble? What if he needs me?"

"Then he'd use me to contact you." Billie Dean said softly, in her "Lifetime-series" voice. "You have to make your peace with his passing. You're sixteen years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. There will be other boys, I promise."

"Do I get my money back?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I paid you to find Tate, and you couldn't. So do I get my money back?"

"I can never guarantee the success of my services, dear. The spirit world is not an exact science. You paid me for my time."

"Like a hooker?" Violet crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Don't be crass, Violet." 

"I bet if a hooker didn't get a guy off, he'd want his money back."

"Our session is over for today." Billie Dean got to her feet, delicately dusting off her gray pants and pink ruffled top. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news about Tate. But if I were you, I would move on. Celebrate Christmas with your family. Go back to school. Find a new boyfriend. Maybe one who's still breathing."

She was trying to make a joke, but Violet's expression just hardened further with dislike. Billie Dean laughed a little nervously, hurrying out of the ground entrance to the basement, her expensive high heels click-clacking across the wood floor as she left.

Violet stayed where she was, not moving, feeling nothing. Sometime later, she heard her father coming down the stairs.

"Vi? Are you okay?"

Violet shrugged, picking at her lace sleeves.

Her father sat down next to her, looking at her intently. "Your mom said you've been spending a lot of time down here."

"How observant of her."

"Violet. Tell me what's going on. She's worried about you. We both are."

Violet licked her lips, hating that her dad's calm, quiet voice still made her want to tell him everything. The truth was out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Tate left, okay?"

"He moved away?"

"Yeah."

Ben took this in for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "I'm sorry, honey. I know you cared about him. But it's probably for the best. He was very unhappy here."

"He told you that? He told you he was unhappy?"

"All the time." Ben looked at her sadly. "You know, sometimes, you can try everything to help someone and it's just never going to be enough. He needed more help than you or I could ever give him. Maybe he'll find it somewhere else."

"Maybe so." Violet said quietly.

"But I'm sorry. It's always hard to lose a friend."

Violet rolled her eyes. Surely her dad wasn't really this clueless. "We weren't just friends, dad."

Ben sighed heavily. "I know."

"I told him I loved him, and he left. How do you get over something like that?"

Ben patted her leg. "Well, for starters, you get out of this dark, depressing basement. Your mom's drafted me over here to help decorate this place for Christmas. You could help me out if you want."

Violet nodded reluctantly. "Fine. But no Christmas music. I'm not up for that."

"Fair enough." Ben laughed, helping her up and leading her out of the basement and into a red-and-green explosion in the entryway upstairs.

_two weeks later_

At first, Violet thought she was imagining things. Enough time had passed that when she was awake, it was getting easier to distract herself from thoughts of Tate. But when she fell asleep, he was always there in her dreams. So for a moment, she thought the sound of rocks hitting her bedroom window was just the beginning of another dream where she would find him again, be with him for a few stolen, perfect hours that would make her feel pleasantly hot and shaky when she remembered them the next day, fall asleep in his arms and wake up alone.

She walked over to her window, looking down and seeing no one there. Violet's eyebrows went together with confusion. If this was a dream, Tate would be standing there, waiting for her. That's usually how they started. What was going on?

Violet reluctantly got back in bed, sighing heavily and closing her eyes when there was another distinctive sound of a rock hitting her bedroom window. She leapt to her feet, hurrying back to the window barely in time to see a figure disappear into the trees behind her house.

The Murder House was surrounded by impressive grounds for a home in LA, but Violet hadn't paid that much attention to them until now. Now that they could be possibly housing Tate, she found herself much more interested.

Violet threw her warmest oversized sweater on over her pajamas, hurriedly tugged on her soft fleece boots, and raced downstairs, disabling the alarm system and running out into the backyard. If there was even a chance Tate was there, that he had somehow been able to come back, she had to know. She had to see him again.

"Tate?" Violet called, her breath coming out like smoke in the chilly night air. Los Angeles was having an unusually cold winter, and the people on the news were even talking about the possibility of snow in the coming weeks.

No answer. She crossed her arms over her chest, gritting her teeth to try and stop them from chattering as she crossed the tree line into the woods, straining to see in the near-total darkness. But suddenly, she saw a shadow dart behind a tree from the corner of her eye, and Violet spun towards the sound of twigs snapping under someone's feet, getting frustrated.

"Who's there?"

The intruder stepped out from behind the tree with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in oddly formal clothes instead of his usual black latex but no less recognizable. Violet's face fell.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

Eli smiled, leaning against the side of a tree. "Once you have teenage pussy, it's hard to go back."

Violet grimaced with disgust. "No rubber suit to hide behind tonight, I see. How ever will you trick girls into having sex with you now?"

"I seem to remember you having a pretty good time." Eli smirked.

"Tate was better." Violet said boldly.

This seemed to catch Eli momentarily off guard, but he quickly masked his expression of surprise with one of sarcastic indifference. "So my idiot brother finally got his huge dick to work. What'd he do, snag some of your dad's erection pills?"

"What are you doing here?" Violet ignored him, repeating the question.

Eli pushed himself off the tree, walking towards her with an elegantly slow stride. "I wanted you to pass along a message for me. From me to my brother."

Violet stiffened when Eli reached out, touching her cheek with his ice cold hand. She pushed his hand away. "Tell him yourself. If you can find him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eli asked.

"Tate's gone, Eli. He's crossed over."

"No. T-That's impossible." Eli's voice suddenly sounded shaky and strange. "I would have felt it. I would have known."

"Well, clearly not." Violet shrugged. "Now leave me alone. If you come back, I'm calling the police."

"You're giving Tate my message." Eli's voice had hardened again, his dark eyes appearing black in the dim light.

"What message?" Violet sighed.

It happened so fast she couldn't even react for a moment. Eli withdrew a knife from behind his back, plunging it into her stomach with a swift, smooth motion. The pain was so immediate and so intense that a sound like a dying animal escaped her lips as she staggered backwards against a tree, reaching out to claw at Eli's face, one of her fingernails breaking the skin and leaving a long bloody scratch mark across his left eyebrow, eyelid, and cheekbone. Eli shoved her back with a cry of pain, recovering his grip on her shoulder and stabbing her over and over, Violet's vision swimming and distorting from pain and blood loss, but she could have sworn she saw tears in Eli's eyes. Tears for his brother? She couldn't even begin to make sense of what was happening

But suddenly, someone grabbed Eli from behind with a roar of fury, strong arms wrapping around her attacker's neck as he was hauled backwards. Violet tried to keep her eyes open, but was losing consciousness, vaguely hearing the sounds of two men locked in an intense physical struggle before everything faded to black.

It was only minutes, but it felt like she'd been asleep for a hundred years, her body completely drained of strength when she felt someone frantically shaking her shoulder.

"Violet, come on, please wake up…"

"Tate…" she breathed out, opening her eyes to see him holding her, his face bloody and bruised from a fight, his hands soaked in blood as he tried to keep pressure on her wounds so she wouldn't bleed out.

"Thank God." Tate let out a desperate breath of relief. "Just hold on, Vi, they're coming to help you."

"Who?" Violet asked weakly.

"The ambulance. I called 911. They'll be here soon."

"No." Violet said vaguely. "No, I don't want help."

"Just rest. You don't know what you're saying."

"Where's Eli?" Violet's eyes darted around, feeling like she might pass out again.

"I took care of him." Tate assured her. "It's all going to be okay, Violet, I promise."

"No, listen to me." Violet tried to sit up, but her bleeding stomach wouldn't permit it. Her head was spinning, her body was losing blood with alarming rapidity, but suddenly her mind was clear and she knew exactly what she wanted to say. "I don't want help. I want to go with you."

Tate shook his head vehemently. "No way."

"Please. Please, Tate. I'd do it for you. Take me with you." Violet looked up at him, clutching his shirt with one hand, her vision still blurring at odd moments. "We need each other. I thought you wanted us to be together."

"I do, but…" Tate's eyes filled with tears, his resolve dangerously close to crumbling. But suddenly he seemed to remember something, something very important, and he shook his head again. "Violet, you're not going to die. Not here. Not for a long time. You're going to go on and have this amazing life. I know it. The rest of us…this house took everything good in us and made it ugly and cruel. But not you. You're so strong and smart and beautiful, and there's no way…there's no way I'm letting you throw all of that away for me."

"Tate, please…" Violet tried to pull herself up to him as they both heard ambulance sirens in the driveway, followed by the sound of car doors slamming and footsteps running towards them in the woods.

"I love you." Tate leaned down, and she closed her eyes at the pressure of his lips against hers, and then, just like that, he was gone. When Violet opened her eyes, she was surrounded by a team of paramedics, and she vaguely heard her parent's hysterical voices, and then she was on a stretcher, so tired, too tired to stay awake any longer, and she let herself drift away again.

"Get up."

Eli grunted at the sudden impact of Tate's boot in his stomach. He rolled onto his side in the pile of wet leaves where Tate had left him unconscious and tied up while he tended to Violet. Eli looked up at his brother, forcing his busted lip into a smile. "Aww. You're back. I knew you still cared."

"Oh, I'll be killing you at the end of this conversation. I just wanted to make something clear."

"Tate the murderer. I must say, I like it much better than Tate the tortured poet. I couldn't believe how many people used to fall for your shit." Eli's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Mom always thought you were so perfect. She used to call you her angel."

Tate crouched down over his brother. "And what would that make you?"

"Evil Incarnate. That's what you all wanted, right?" Eli laughed. "I can't believe you turned your little girlfriend down. I thought I was doing you a favor, killing her. Giving you a playmate in whatever twisted afterlife you've finally moved on to. What's it like—"

"Listen to me." Tate interrupted, his hands closing around his brother's throat. "We're not on the property anymore. I'm killing you, but you're not coming back. You can't ever hurt anyone again. You're never going to see me, or Addy, or mom, or dad ever again. It's over."

"You're depriving me the gift of our perfect little family?" Eli sneered. "What a tragedy."

Tate looked down at him, thinking of all the horribly depressing stories he'd heard from the people he'd encountered on the other side. "You're not the only one with problems. Get over yourself."

Eli looked up at his brother carefully for a moment, as if deciding something. Finally he spoke again. "You're right, Tate. There are people with problems much worse than mine. Like Larry Harvey."

Tate blinked with surprise, his grip loosening slightly. "Larry Harvey? From next door, a million years ago?"

"Yeah. I mean, not only does the only woman he's ever loved not love him back but if you kill me, both of his sons will have met violent ends."

"Larry had two daughters." Tate reminded him, too confused to stay angry.

"With his wife, yes. With our mother, no."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Larry's our dad, chickenshit. Mom had to sleep with that freak show to finally get us, her perfect, pretty children. Hugo, Mr. Langdon, the man we grew up calling father— had a vasectomy after Addy. Look up the medical records if you don't believe me. I heard Larry and mom talking about it a few years ago, when they thought they were alone. I don't miss much that happens in that house. Their relationship is pretty sick. She's a real bitch to him, but he still loves her."

"You're so full of shit." Tate replaced his hands around his brother's neck, but just as Eli started to struggle against him, Tate's hands began to turn translucent. He was fading away again, back into the space after life. He had discovered that he could return to Murder House, but it was never for long, and he couldn't control when he was pulled back. Eli looked up at him with confusion for a moment, until he seemed to understand what was happening and his mouth spread into a triumphant smile.

"Don't worry. We'll see each other again." Eli promised his brother, but before Tate could respond, he was gone, left to wander the other side with nothing but thoughts of Violet bleeding on the ground and Eli's bizarre proclamation about their mother and Larry Harvey.

There was no way. If Tate knew one thing about his mother, it was that her entire life had been spent in the pursuit of beauty. She was obsessed with it. She would never give someone like Larry a second glance.

Right?

Tate rubbed his eyes wearily. As much as he liked the peace and quiet in heaven or purgatory or wherever he was, he didn't so much like the fact that this place gave him entirely too much time to think.

1976

"Constance? What are you doing here?" Larry opened the door, hurriedly ushering her inside and out of the pouring rain. She was soaked to the bone, her thin bare arms shaking. Larry led her by the shoulders into his living room. "Here. Come sit by the fire."

Constance gratefully sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, looking up at him. "You're always so good to me."

Larry sank to his knees in front of her, gasping when the firelight illuminated her eerily perfect movie star features, showing a large purple bruise under one eye and a bloody busted lip. "Did he do this to you?"

Constance laughed weakly, taking out a handkerchief from her purse and dabbing at her lip, the white stiff fabric of the handkerchief embroidered with the initials CL instantly turning red. "Hugo always did have a bit of temper."

Larry shook his head, his eyes dark with anger. "That son of a bitch."

"He was drunk." Constance shrugged. "He doesn't remember himself when he drinks."

"Why do you stay with him?" Larry suddenly asked, unable to hold in the question any longer.

Constance ran her tongue over her teeth, hoping the blood wouldn't stain. She'd been born with perfect white teeth, and could hardly be a great actress without them. "He was my first love."

Larry reached out, taking her ice cold hands in his. "Things change, Constance. People change."

Constance looked down at him imperiously. "And where's your wife, Mr. Harvey?"

"She took the girls to visit my mother-in-law in Santa Barbara."

"You didn't join them?" 

Larry laughed humorlessly. "I had to stay here for work. Lorraine looked relieved. She always gives me so much hell about not spending enough time with the girls, but whenever I do spend time with them, she thinks I'm parenting them all wrong."

"Family is a trying business." Constance conceded, slipping off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her long, nude-hosed legs up underneath her to warm her feet. "Laurence, could you be a dear and bring me some hot tea?"

"Of course." Larry hurried off to the kitchen, and when he returned with two mugs of hot tea, Constance looked considerably more relaxed, staring into the fire with a furrowed brow as if trying to solve an equation in her head.

"What are you thinking?" Larry sat across from her, passing off her mug of tea.

Constance gave the slightly chipped mug with a handle a perfunctory look of displeasure before answering him. "Just how often dreams die in the face of reality."

"What were your dreams, Constance?"

"Be a big star. Marry the man I loved and have this perfect family."

"Well, I don't know about the perfect family, but you will be a big star, Constance. We both will, if we work hard enough."

Constance's lips twisted into a smirk. "Really? Because I think our current roles could use a bit of work."

"What roles?" Larry looked up with confusion.

"The ones in the little charade we've been running for the past five years. You play the faithful husband who's not in love with me, and I play the happy housewife who doesn't know it."

"Constance—" Larry's cheeks turned red, setting down his mug.

"No, it's fine. You make me feel good about myself when Hugo treats me like dogshit, and I give you a perfect body and pretty face to imagine when you're trying to get through a night on top of your mousey wife. I would call that a mutually beneficial arrangement, wouldn't you?"

"It's not like that." Larry crossed to her, on his knees again. "I'm in love with you."

Constance looked down at him. "Wanting someone is not the same as loving them."

Larry took her hands, speaking in the most confident, certain voice she'd ever heard from him. "I. Love. You. I would do anything for you, anything in the world."

"You're a married man, Laurence." Constance reminded him.

"The things I feel for her are nothing like the things I feel for you. I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world. I haven't stopped thinking about you since the moment we met."

Constance pulled her hands away from his. "Get up."

Larry stood up obediently, watching nervously as Constance rose to her feet as well, taking him by the shoulders and shoving him back into his chair. He just watched in silent admiration as she slid her green dress off her shoulders, taking off her white gloves and stockings, staring him down with an odd sense of purpose in her dark brown eyes. Finally, she took down her long blond hair, shaking it around her shoulders as she stood before him wearing nothing but a thin slip and her wedding ring.

"Constance," Larry breathed out, "you're so—"

"No, no." She leaned over him, one hand on the arm of his chair, the other clamped over his mouth. "I don't want you to talk."

"Then what are we doing?" Larry mumbled against her hand.

Constance swallowed hard, shooting a brief look at her stately mansion out the window, the lights off in the master bedroom, Hugo probably passed out and uncaring. Well, there were still men that wanted her. Constance thrived on revenge, and this seemed like just the thing to make her feel better.

"Everything you've always wanted." She smiled down at Larry, and even though she didn't love or want him back, just seeing the desire in his eyes for her was enough. And when he kissed her, she closed her eyes, finding Larry much more appealing when she didn't have to look at him.

Two months of missed periods later, she came to the sickening conclusion that she was carrying the child of her secret, shameful lover. Hugo didn't seem to care enough to do the math that would make it very clear he wasn't the father. He just laughed that apparently the procedure he'd had after Addy wasn't enough to stop his little swimmers, and Constance weakly laughed back.

And when the twins were born, with gleaming blond curls and big brown eyes, and everyone fawned over them and told her how beautiful they were, Constance wasn't at all sorry for what she had done. She had finally gotten what she wanted—beautiful children. At least one of her dreams had come true.

2011

"Son of a BITCH!" Patrick pounded his fist against the front door.

Chad watched him from the staircase, sighing heavily. "Pat. You've been at this for hours. We're not getting out of here."

"No! No, that doesn't make any sense."

"We're dead, honey." Chad shrugged. "I always thought this house was haunted. I guess now we're the ones haunting it."

"This isn't funny, Chad! Something's keeping us here!"

"Well, look on the bright side. Now the bank can't take the house away from us." Chad grinned. "You don't have to pay mortgage from the great beyond."

Patrick ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Why do you keep saying shit like that? We're not dead."

Chad blinked. "You don't remember dying?"

"No. I remember coming home and finding some freak wearing that rubber suit standing over you…and that's it."

Chad's dark brown eyes softened with sadness. "He killed us, Pat. Both of us."

Patrick let out a long breath, sinking down on the stair below Chad on the staircase. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying…I think this is it. This is what comes after."

Neither of them spoke again for a long time, both staring at the front door and listening to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway.

"What do we do?" Patrick finally said.

"Try and find some kind of peace." Chad swallowed, his voice coming out a little unsteady when he spoke again. "What's wrong? You don't want to be stuck with me for all eternity?"

Patrick looked back at him, his bright blue eyes full of tears. "When I came in the house and I saw you on the ground…when I thought I'd lost you…" He trailed off, characteristically unable to find the right words to express how he felt about Chad, how he'd always felt about him. "I just…I'm glad you're here."

Chad looked back at him, his jaw set in a hard line, refusing to pretend everything had been all right between them before they died, falling back into comfortable acidity. "Spare me the histrionics. We both know that the only reason you weren't home when I was attacked is because you were busy getting sucked off by your trainer in some disgusting communal gym shower."

Patrick sighed, turning away from him. Chad let out a humorless laugh. "You're not even going to deny it?"

"What would be the point?" Patrick got to his feet, shaking his head and walking off into the kitchen, grumbling to himself in a loud enough voice that he was clearly making sure Chad could hear him. "Good thing this is a big fucking house."

"I'll make sure to draw a line down the middle of the floor." Chad called after him. "We can each pick a side."

Patrick ignored him, and Chad leaned back, his elbows resting on the next highest stair. He was angry with Patrick, and didn't plan on letting any of that go anytime soon, but he also felt oddly, bizarrely content with this new turn of events. If he was being completely honest with himself, he had what he wanted. The house. Patrick. Those were the only two things he'd ever really wanted in his life, and now they were his, for all time. No one else could touch them or take them away from him.

It wasn't exactly heaven, but he'd take what he could get.

2017

Violet looked around the bedroom in Murder House that had once been hers. It still looked mostly the same. The walls were still green. Her chalkboard was still up. Constance had even left her comforter the same. It felt like walking back in time.

Apparently her room was one of the most requested, largely due to her connection to Tate. Constance told her that people regularly held séances in Violet's bedroom, trying to contact Tate's spirit, but so far, none had been successful.

That night Tate saved her life in the woods, six years ago, had apparently been the only time he'd been able (or willing, she thought with a slight, painful twinge) to return. She hadn't seen or heard from him since, and according to Constance, neither had anyone else, even a group of devoted ghost-hunters who returned every month in search of the spirit of Tate Langdon. He'd achieved a kind of cult status after the story came out per Constance about his brother (or "Rubber Man" as he'd become known to Murder House devotees) framing Tate for the school shootings and letting him die in his place, while continuing to terrorize Murder House and its occupants until his mysterious disappearance after his attack on Violet Harmon. Apparently, when Violet had been near-delirious from blood loss, she'd told paramedics that a man in a rubber suit had attacked her and the long-dead Tate Langdon had saved her life, and therefore unknowingly inserted herself into the increasingly fantastic tale of the Langdon brothers. Countless ghost hunting and real life haunting television shows had contacted her for an interview about her connection to Tate and Murder House, but Violet refused them every time. Despite her silence, the faithful followers of Murder House lore had taken her attempted murder by Rubber Man and claim that Tate had saved her as gospel, and inserted her into the legend as the girl who'd fallen in love and had a relationship with their tragically misunderstood ghost.

Violet understood the obsession. Tate's story had all the elements of a good tragedy—he was wrongfully accused. He died young, and unjustly. Once they threw in a good love story between a living girl and a ghost, he became irresistible to the thousands that now flocked to Murder House to investigate its secrets for themselves. Constance, industrious as always, had finally bought her beloved house back and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast catering to the dark-minded and supernatural-obsessed who longed to have their own ghostly experience. And many did. Norah and Charles Montgomery were a popular sighting, as were the ghosts of Chad and Patrick. The nurses murdered in the sixties, and the Franklin devotees who'd terrorized Violet and her mother, provided some of the more horrific sightings.

It was bizarre to think that the ghosts who had so terrified her when she'd first moved in now had their own fanbases. And according to Constance, most of the ghosts loved the publicity. It definitely livened up their eternal imprisonment to have people coming from all over the world just to see them—rooms were often booked months in advance, and the current waiting list for Violet Harmon's bedroom was eight months. But Constance had made a special arrangement when Violet had called her.

Constance and Violet had come to an uneasy kind of understanding after Tate crossed over. They had never exactly bonded, but Constance had attended her graduation party, and even thanked her for helping Tate find some kind of peace. Violet had been so surprised she had just stuttered out "N-No problem," and accepted Constance's graduation gift of three crisp hundred dollar bills folded inside a card with the initials "CL" monogrammed on the front.

Constance had informed Violet upon her arriving back at Murder House that her weekend stay had garnered a fair bit of attention from the other guests to whom Violet Harmon was practically a celebrity, and they were all dying to meet her. Some of them had even asked if they could get a picture with her to take home to their fellow ghost-obsessed friends.

But Violet didn't plan on leaving her room much. She was here for a very specific purpose. To write. For her senior thesis at Berkeley, she had decided to write about Murder House, and specifically, the nearly century-long public fascination with the place and its occupants. When she had told her thesis advisor her idea, he had laughed merrily and said she should thank him in the acknowledgements when she got a book deal out of this, before happily signing off on her proposal.

When Violet had arrived at the bed and breakfast, it was late enough that everyone else was asleep in their rooms. Constance answered the door, still flawlessly made up and dressed even though it was the middle of the night.

"Violet. At last." Constance said, standing imperiously in the doorway, looking very comfortable in her newly rediscovered role as the Queen of Murder House. "You've dyed your hair."

Violet nervously ran a hand through her newly jet-black hair that was also newly shorter, now hanging just below her shoulders. She still couldn't decide how she felt about the change, and it was obvious Constance didn't like it. "Yeah. Got bored. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible coming into the city." Violet said, feeling a little awkward just standing there. She hadn't seen Constance or this house in four years. It felt beyond surreal to be back here again. Seeing this place and Tate's mother changed his absence from a dull, familiar ache to a sudden, shooting pain.

"I'm just glad you've arrived safely. Would you like the grand tour? Not much has changed, but it couldn't hurt to reacquaint yourself."

"You don't mind? I know it's late." 

"I don't mind." Constance ushered her inside, Violet feeling suddenly dizzy and a little sick as she stepped over the threshold. She hadn't been expecting the effect this place would still have on her, after so long. She'd never felt things as intensely as she'd felt them here, and even though she'd liked college and made friends and even had the occasional boyfriend, including a guy from her thesis class she'd just broken up with two days ago, Violet knew there was a part of her that she had left behind in this place that she never really got back.

"This place stays with you, doesn't it?" Constance looked at her with a small smile, almost as if reading Violet's mind.

"Yeah. Maybe that's why I feel like I have to write about it. Get it out of my system or something."

"Good luck with that." Constance laughed airily. She showed Violet around the newly renovated home, and Violet was pleased to find it all still looked mostly the same. Her heart had nearly pounded out of her chest when Constance had led the way down into the basement, the place where she and Tate would always meet up after her parents were asleep. Violet half-expected him to be waiting there, but the basement was empty and silent. Constance seemed nonplussed by the lack of supernatural activity, giving Violet a small shrug and saying, "I suppose they're all getting their beauty sleep." She led Violet back upstairs, turning to face her in the entryway. "Well, your room's all ready for you." She handed Violet a small antique key. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Thanks." Violet took the key, making her way up the stairs to the second floor landing, hearing Constance talking to someone in the kitchen that she called "Laurence", Violet barely hearing the murmur of an unfamiliar male voice replying.

She let herself into her room, finding it strange to have to unlock the door to what had once been her own bedroom, dropping her suitcases and book bag on the floor before carefully setting up her laptop in its old spot on her desk. The room felt way too quiet, but she couldn't exactly blare music in the middle of the night when the house was fully booked for the weekend.

Violet looked around the room, taking in the small differences from the years that had passed, eventually changing into her pajamas and laying down on her old bed, staring up at the ceiling. She was more tired than she had anticipated from a hectic week at school and a long drive into the city, her eyelids growing heavy. And just as she was drifting off—

"Hey."

"Holy shit." Violet clapped a hand to her chest, sitting up and seeing him standing there, right in front of her, wearing a flannel shirt and ripped up jeans she recognized from what felt like a million years ago.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Tate rocked back on his heels, looking nervous. "I just never know how long I get to stay, and when I saw you were here..."

"Where have you been?" Violet swung her legs over to sit on the side of the bed facing him, part of her wanting to go to him and part of her scared he would vanish the moment she did.

"I'm not really sure." Tate shrugged. "It's nice there though. Addy's there. And no one's sad or angry." Tate looked at her intently, as if trying to memorize everything about her. "I miss you though. Every day. All the time."

Violet swallowed hard. "I miss you too."

"How long have I been gone?"

"Six years."

"Seriously?" Tate's eyes widened. "So you're, what…like twenty-one now?"

"Yeah." Violet grinned. "Do I look older?"

"Kind of." Tate smiled back. "I like your hair dark."

Violet blushed. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's hot. You look like a bad-ass."

"Thanks."

"So where are your parents now?"

"They ended up getting divorced."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was for the best. My mom moved back to Boston with some guy. She told me they adopted a baby boy from Africa. Maybe he'll do better than I did with gluten-free baby food."

Tate snickered, and Violet smiled slightly, still confused by Tate finding her funny. He was one of the only people who ever seemed to get her admittedly droll sense of humor. She went on. "And my dad's still in LA. He opened a practice with another psychiatrist. Some lady. She's cool. I mean, she tries way too hard to be nice to me when I come to visit him, so knowing my dad, he's probably doing her, but whatever. He and I actually get along okay now. We get lunch sometimes."

"That's cool. What are you doing back here?"

"I'm writing my college thesis on this place."

"Where'd you go to college?" Tate asked, hungry for information, finding himself still wanting to know absolutely everything about her.

"Berkeley."

"Figures." Tate shook his head with a laugh. "I always said you were a fucking genius."

Violet laughed. "Shut up. No, I'm not. I always feel like everyone there's smarter than me."

"They're not." Tate finally closed the space between them, sitting next to her on the bed. His eyes briefly flicked down to her mouth, and Violet felt the flicker of nerves in her chest intensify to an actual burning sensation. What would it feel like to kiss him, after all these years?

He reached out, touching her cheek, tucking her hair behind one ear. "I feel like I've been looking for you forever."

"I know what you mean." Violet said quietly.

"Anytime I could come back to this place, even if it was just for a second, I would. Just to see if there was any chance you'd be here."

"How does it work? How long can you usually stay?"

"Sometimes it's a few seconds. Sometimes a couple hours. And then it's just like…something pulls me back."

"That sucks."

"I know."

They looked at each other for a long moment, years of built-up tension and desire and need making it almost unbearable to be this close to each other and not act on their feelings.

Tate rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking like he dreaded having to ask his next question. "So do you have a boyfriend?"

"No. I mean, sort of. I did. I broke up with him like two days ago." Violet rambled nervously.

"Why'd you break up with him?"

Violet's lips curved into a small smile. "I dunno. I still think I'm kind of hung up on this guy from high school."

Tate just looked at her, not smiling back right away, and Violet realized he was trying to figure out if she meant him. She sighed. "You, Tate. I mean you."

"Really?" There was a brief flicker of something behind his eyes, something that almost looked like sadness.

"Yeah, really." Violet swallowed hard, finally just abandoning all pretense of small talk. "I'm still in love with you."

Tate looked down at his hands on his knees, taking this in for a moment. Then suddenly, he looked back up at her. "Do you want to—"

"Yes." Violet cut him off, both she and Tate moving towards each other at the same moment, Tate taking her in his arms, Violet already fumbling with his clothes, their mouths crushed together as they fell back on her bed.

A/N- Until chapter five! The Langdon family has a confrontation for the ages, Chad has to hear some very unpleasant truths, Larry comes clean with Constance, and Violet and Tate find an unexpected solution to their dimensional separation…reviews will make my Saturday shift at work feel much shorter…:)


	5. This Is All I Ever Wanted

A/N- Thanks for the reviews guys! On to chapter five! And just for clarity's sake, Eli didn't die the night he attacked Violet. He escaped. And this chapter, he's back with a vengeance. Hope you all enjoy!

Love in the Afterlife

Chapter Five

"The sun's coming up." Violet looked over her shoulder at the weak morning light coming through her shutters.

"I've never done this before. Stayed up all night with somebody." Tate smiled sleepily when Violet turned back to face him. They just looked at each other for a long moment, lying on their sides facing each other in bed, Tate taking the hand that was resting on her pillow and lacing his fingers through hers.

"Me neither." Violet smiled back, wearing nothing but his plaid shirt but still feeling a little shy around him after last night. During her time in college, sex with other guys had mostly proved anticlimactic and awkward, and the one time a guy had tried to go down on her before had been a total disaster. He'd been a friend from her junior philosophy class, and they'd both been pretty drunk in his dorm room after a party, and after assuring Violet that he was "really good at this", Violet had felt absolutely nothing but embarrassment for him until he'd fallen asleep with his head still between her legs, and she'd sneaked out and barely been able to muster a "hello" to him in class on Monday.

But last night, Tate had gone down on her and Violet had finally understood the "holy-shit-balls" reaction to oral that countless friends and Cosmo articles had led her to expect. She had half-expected another earthquake. It was always so intense when she and Tate were together, and not just physically. They had talked until five in the morning, and she told him things last night she'd never told anyone—like the fact that all she really wanted to do with her college degree was write books. Or the fact that she didn't really miss her mom all that much after she moved back to Boston, and how she felt guilty for siding with her dad after all the crap he'd pulled. She never felt nervous telling Tate anything, because she knew without a doubt that he loved and accepted her for exactly who she was.

They fell asleep holding hands, and Violet didn't wake up the next day until nearly one o'clock. It was like the all-nighters she'd been pulling for school combined with the excitement of seeing Tate again (and having more sex in one night than she'd had in the past six years) finally all caught up with her, and she felt like she was coming out of a coma when she finally woke up.

But her sleepy, love-drunk haze faded quickly when she realized she had woken up alone. Violet sat up in bed, the sheets still rumpled on his side, like he had just left. She didn't even have to go searching around the room for him this time. She could feel it. He was already gone.

Violet felt a rush of white-hot anger in her stomach, not at him, but at this, their whole situation. It wasn't fair. They were supposed to be together. They'd both known it from the moment they met. This was bullshit. She ran a hand through her dark hair, taking a long, shaky breath, trying not to scream out in frustration.

Suddenly, she noticed a folded up piece of white paper on her bedside table. She picked it up, opening the paper and hungrily devouring the words written in his dark, slanted print, hoping for a solution but only finding a goodbye.

Violet-

If you're reading this, it means I didn't get the chance to say goodbye in person and I have to say it in a letter. Hey, it's better than a chalkboard, right?

Last night was perfect, and if it was up to me, I'd wake up next to you for the rest of my (after)life.

But it's not up to me, or you, and so I think we have to let this go. I don't want you to be stuck in this place waiting for me forever. I wouldn't wish this crazy house (or my crazy mother) on my worst enemy, and I definitely wouldn't wish them on you—my soulmate and my best friend. You're going to be an amazing writer, and I don't want anything to hold you back.

Please know that I meant it when I said I would love you forever and just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not there.

I can't wait to see what you do with your life. You already saved mine.

-Tate

Violet was crying by the time she got to the end of the letter, silent, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. She wiped them away, trying to remember the last time she'd even gotten misty-eyed. She never knew if it was him, or this place, or both of them together, but it was like every emotion just bubbled up so easily here—love, hate, despair, everything.

She refolded the letter, not ready to think about any of the things he'd said in it. Violet shoved the letter in her book bag, fishing out her cigarettes and lighter and blatantly ignoring the "NO SMOKING" sign Constance had posted in all of the rooms. She chain-smoked her way through five cigarettes before her empty stomach started to churn with nausea. She needed to eat something, but she couldn't face Constance or the ghost-hunters who would surely have questions for her if she went downstairs.

Suddenly there was a knock at her door. Violet hastily stubbed out her cigarette, making a futile attempt to wave away the smell of smoke. "Y-Yes?"

"Miss Harmon?" It was Moira's voice. "I've brought you lunch."

Violet hastily put on underwear and her jeans from last night, doing up a few more buttons of Tate's shirt and hoping she looked like she had just been innocently writing in her room all morning. She opened the door, finding it oddly comforting that Moira hadn't changed a bit. "Thanks. I'm starved."

Moira looked her up and down, almost suspiciously. Violet crossed her arms over her chest. "What?"

"Ham and swiss sandwich." Moira handed her the tray. "Still your favorite?"

"Yeah. You're the best." Violet said quickly, unable to shake the odd feeling that Moira always knew everything she was trying to hide.

Moira watched Violet hurry back over to her bed, hastily digging into her sandwich. Moira's lips curved into a smile. "You really don't think she'll find out? It's written all over your face."

Violet swallowed a bite of sandwich, her cheeks slightly flushed. "What is?"

"You've been smoking in here." Moira shook her head.

Violet let out a small little laugh of relief. "Oh, yeah. Guilty."

Moira turned as though to leave, but suddenly stopped, looking back to Violet. "It's a bad habit, Miss Harmon. You should really give it up. I understand you had to indulge your rebellious spirit in high school, but you're an adult now. And I'd hate to see you waste your whole life…smoking." Moira was looking at her rather pointedly, and Violet realized what they were really talking about. How in the hell did Moira know everything?

"I'm not wasting my life," Violet said defensively.

"Then what are you doing back here?"

"I'm writing a book on this place."

"Oh, move on." Moira snapped, frustration creeping into her voice. "I don't understand you. Or Mr. Harvey. I stay here because I can't leave. You both choose to keep coming back to this godforsaken place. For them. All in the name of some hopeless search for a love you can never really possess, with two people who will always leave you both disappointed. I find it incredibly sad."

"Well, no one asked you." Violet snapped, having very little idea what Larry Harvey had to do with her but done with this conversation nonetheless.

There was a long, awkward silence. Moira finally just nodded. "I'm sorry, Miss Harmon. You just have so much potential."

Violet sighed. Why did everyone keep saying stuff like that? "Okay. Thanks for the sandwich."

"Of course, ma'am." Moira left without another word, and Violet was left with nothing but silence and the unpleasant truth of Moira's words for company. Moira and Tate were right. She couldn't stay here. Her defining characteristic couldn't be the girl who was always left behind.

"Violet's checked out a day early. I thought she'd at least stay for the weekend, especially after I moved heaven and earth to get her in her old room." Constance poured herself a drink, sitting down with Larry at the kitchen table. He always stayed up late finishing the financial reports for the day, and Constance joining him after locking up for the night had become their little tradition.

Constance and Larry had started the bed and breakfast together two years ago, and everything else had just seemed to evolve from their business partnership with no great fanfare or dramatics. Renewing their friendship and physical relationship soon after joining forces professionally had just seemed natural, and Constance was apparently finally lonely enough to see past his mangled appearance and not mention it (much). And although they spent almost all their time together, the actual nature of their relationship was never discussed. Larry had the disturbing notion that Constance had just started sleeping with him again as some kind of bizarre thank-you for helping her start up the bed and breakfast, but the romantic in him still believed there was more to it than that. There had to be.

Larry looked over his laptop at her, raising his eyebrows. "You're disappointed."

"No, I'm not. Why would I be?" Constance shrugged flippantly.

"Yes, you are. And I can tell you exactly why." Larry closed his computer. "I can practically read your mind by now, you know."

Constance took a sip of her drink, one side of her mouth curving upwards into what could have been a smile or a sneer. "Fine. Amaze me."

"You thought that Violet coming back would bring Tate back too." Larry said simply. "And I get it. I thought the same thing. I want him back too."

Constance sighed, her eyes slightly glassy. "I was foolish to hope… but I just…Tate's always been so devoted to Violet. He loves her like…"

"Like the way I love you."

Constance pressed her lips together, clearly displeased with him for broaching the only unspoken topic between them. "Laurence, please don't do this. I asked you to help me with this place because I value your financial input."

Larry shook his head. "No. You're lying. That's not all this is."

Constance set down her drink, her dark eyes flashing with anger. "We're staving off loneliness, Laurence. That doesn't make us soulmates."

Larry slammed his fist down on the table. "Then what would? What more could you possibly want that I haven't given you?" There was a long silence before Larry rubbed the scarred side of his face wearily before looking back up to her, conviction in his eyes she had never seen before. "You're just scared. Scared of actually admitting you need another person. But you do need me, Constance. And I need you."

"I don't need anyone."

"Fine." Larry got to his feet. "Run this place on your own then." He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, walking out the front door without another word.

Constance looked around the empty kitchen, finding herself in the unusual position of being alone. "He'll be back," she said, suddenly realizing that even though the house was full to bursting with spirits and guests, she had run out of people who cared to listen.

1983

"Larry Harvey speaking."

"Can I see you?"

"Hold on." Larry hurried to close his office door, going back to his phone and lowering his voice, feeling a little thrill of excitement at his office subterfuge. "What's wrong?"

"He's cheating. I know he is." Constance already sounded worked up into a high temper, and Larry had the distinct impression that she'd been drinking before she called him.

"What? With who?"

"That damn maid. I heard them talking in the kitchen this morning before he went to work, and it didn't exactly sound like the proper tone of conversation between employer and employee. I mean, I'm more offended by his lack of originality than anything else. Diddling the maid? What's next? His secretary?" Constance laughed hollowly, and Larry heard the clink of ice cubes as she took another sip of something. "She's upstairs, right now. Cleaning the boy's rooms. The thought of her touching their things makes my skin crawl. You know, a very large part of me just wants to take my pistol and—"

"Let's meet for lunch. At the Roosevelt."

"When?"

"Whenever. Now." Larry waved his hand. "Do you want me to come pick you up?" 

"No, I can drive myself, thank you." Constance sniffed imperiously. Larry sighed. She was clearly in no condition to drive, but didn't want to risk the chance of neighbors seeing them together in the middle of the day.

"Baby, come on. I don't want you wrapping that nice Cadillac around a telephone pool."

"I'll meet you in twenty minutes. At the Roosevelt." Constance said stubbornly.

"Fine. Twenty minutes." Larry hung up the phone, shaking his head and calling the hotel to make their usual reservation. He knew she'd probably be fine—Constance had been drinking hard liquor since she was fifteen, and had a disturbingly high tolerance for the stuff. He was just happy she'd called.

His relationship with Constance was impossible to explain, largely because Larry wasn't even sure he understood it himself. She was always the one who dictated the nature of their interactions. Sometimes they were friends. Most times they were lovers. Sometimes she hated him, other times, mostly when she was drunk, she'd threaten to kill herself if he wouldn't see her. It was undoubtedly an unhealthy relationship, but Larry loved it. When he was with Constance, it was like the world changed from black and white to color. His life was so alarmingly routine without her—husband to a wife who barely tolerated him, father to two girls who clearly were told by their mother whose side to be on, and executive of an accounting firm that he could barely describe to people without boring himself.

But Constance was beautiful and exciting and infuriating and made him feel things he used to think only existed in movies and books. It gave them both a nasty little thrill to have to pretend there was nothing going on between them when they all had dinner at the Langdon's overwrought historic home every week, Hugo blissfully unaware and Lorraine at least pretending to be, Larry's daughters playing happily on the floor with Addy, Tate, and Eli.

Larry knew he should feel guilty about what they were doing, but somehow that emotion just never set in. They didn't set out to hurt anyone. And so far, they hadn't. But he did fantasize all the time about what it would be like to be married to Constance. Their kids already got along. Hugo would find someone else in a matter of hours. Maybe that pretty maid of theirs. And Lorraine…Larry's train of thought always stopped there. He didn't like thinking of what would happen to her.

Larry shook himself mentally, driving up the palm-tree lined path that led to the glamorous Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Constance had told him once that she'd always imagined herself among the rich and famous Hollywood denizens who regularly lounged poolside or closed deals at the hotel bar, and Larry had surprised her once by taking her to dinner there. Ever since, it had become their spot to meet. They both had dreams of being discovered in Hollywood that had to be set aside for the sake of their families, and this hotel seemed to encapsulate everything they still secretly wanted for themselves.

He checked in at the front desk, ambling towards the elevator, making sure to keep his expression even when Constance fell into step with him, neither speaking to each other or making eye contact as they boarded the elevator together, doing their now-familiar acting exercise of playing total strangers in public.

When the doors closed, Larry turned towards her, looking over her always flawless appearance. Her blond hair was in Veronica Lake curls around her shoulders, her enviable figure very clearly displayed in a thin cream colored sweater dotted with pearls over white pants and tall champagne colored high heels. She certainly didn't look like the inebriated lovelorn housewife he'd talked to on the phone. She looked like she always did—a movie star.

Constance leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, a smug smile on her glossed lips as she looked back at him. "I'll have you notice, Mr. Harvey—not a scratch on me. Or my Cadillac."

"Heaven strike me down for daring to question your abilities." Larry held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Did you get a smoking room?" 

"Of course."

"And you won't judge me for indulging my vices?"

Larry smiled, shaking his head. "Never."

They walked off the elevator together and into their room, Larry loosening his tie and taking off his jacket as Constance set her white Chanel handbag on the nightstand. When he turned back around from taking off his jacket, Constance peeled off her sweater and pants and stepped towards him, pushing him down on the foot of the bed. She slid off her underwear, leaning down to take his face in her hands.

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you." Larry said obediently, his hands already under the lace bra still covering her breasts.

"Tell me you love me." Constance sighed, undoing her bra and slipping the straps off her shoulders.

"I love you." Larry tossed the flimsy lingerie off the side of the bed, watching her hurriedly undo his belt and pants as he pulled her back on the bed, his hands grasping her hips as they fucked with her on top, Constance clenching his shoulders as she moved against him with a strange ferocity, seemingly out to prove something yet again.

"Hugo never lets me be on top." Constance informed him, a distinctive flush spreading from her chest to her neck as they both started breathing harder.

"Hugo's an idiot." Larry muttered, the heat of the moment making him bolder than he usually would be.

Constance didn't reply, and they didn't speak again until it was over, limbs still entwined in sweaty sheets as they lay side by side, Constance rummaging through her purse almost immediately after, lighting up a cigarette and even sharing it with Larry, finding herself in an unusually giving mood. He was the only man who ever took the time to give her an orgasm, something Constance had found a depressingly rare trait, so she might as well show some shred of appreciation. What was one cigarette between friends? It did feel a little too romantic for her tastes, but Larry seemed so happy when she did it that she indulged him.

"When do you have to be back at work?" Constance asked, stretching out her long limbs, shivering slightly at the small aftershock of pleasure still thudding through her.

Larry blew out a cloud of smoke, shrugging. Sex always seemed to make him very apathetic towards everything else. "Dunno. Who cares?"

"Laurence."

Larry handed the cigarette back. "I'm the boss, honey. They can't exactly fire me." He stroked the bare curve of her hip with one hand, finding it incredibly sexy that Constance was perfectly fine with him seeing her naked in this crappy hotel room lighting in the middle of the day. The very few times he and Lorraine had sex anymore, it was always at night, in pitch darkness, under the covers, and was so awkward and silent that Larry thought it barely even deserved the title of sex.

Constance grinned, seemingly in a much better mood now, but her voice still sarcastic. "Yes, baby, please tell me all about accounting." She leaned forward, kissing him briefly. "You really need to work on your pillow talk."

She got out of bed, walking around the room stark naked as she read the room service menu. "I'm starved, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Do they have a good burger here?"

Constance looked up at him, wrinkling her nose. "I don't know why you insist on eating like a twelve-year old."

"I'm sorry, darling. What choice would meet your approval? Larry smiled sardonically.

"I'll order for us." Constance sat back down on her side of the bed, picking up the phone.

"And then I'll pay for us, right?" Larry laughed.

"I knew you were a clever man." Constance gave him back the cigarette, Larry tasting the vanilla flavor from her lipstick as he inhaled. A little over an hour later, he was back in his dull, sterile office, his time with Constance feeling, as always, like nothing but a stolen dream.

2017

"There you are." Chad walked into the master bedroom, finding Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out at the blazing reds and yellows of the sunset with a thoughtful expression on his ridiculously handsome features. Chad tentatively stepped towards him. "I haven't seen you in days."

"Did you ever think that might be intentional?" Patrick muttered under his breath.

Chad blinked with surprise. "Why are you being such a grouch?"

"No reason. Never mind." Patrick seemed to lose his nerve, going back to his usual maddeningly placid self.

"Come on. You've been skulking around for weeks. Something's bothering you."

Patrick shrugged. "Just not feeling very social, I guess."

Chad raised his eyebrows. "Really? But you're usually so very friendly. With bartenders." He started ticking people off on his fingers. "Randoms. Trainers."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Enough already about my trainer. It's not funny anymore."

"Oh, I beg to differ. I find it hilarious, especially now that I see you're still so touchy about him. What's wrong, Pat? You thought you two were soulmates?" Chad snickered.

"Maybe." Patrick said boldly. "We could have been."

Chad was so caught off guard that he was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Finally, he managed to sputter out a response. "If…if not for me, you mean?"

"Yeah. If not for you and this stupid house and me being dumb enough to come back home that day, we'd probably still be together. We weren't just messing around, Chad. We were in love. I was going to leave you."

Chad's face had gone very pale, but he was clearly struggling to keep a sardonic, flippant smile on his face. "I see. So I was standing in the way of true love, was I?"

"It's not your fault. I should have told you." Patrick said, trying to be fair.

"So why didn't you?" Chad demanded. "Were you just worried I'd throw you out? Didn't want to move into your one true love's shitty efficiency apartment on South Side?"

Patrick shook his head. "Just stop."

"Not a chance. I am nowhere near finished." Chad laughed, a forced, strained sound." Let me just clarify something—are you saying that if you hadn't come home that day, and I had died without you, you would have been, what? Relieved? Just stepped over my dead body to get to him? Screwed him at my wake? I'm _so_ sorry for getting in the way of all your plans."

Patrick looked down at the floor. "We were so unhappy, Chad. Don't act like this is coming as a complete surprise."

"We were unhappy because you're a cheating asshole!"

"No!" Patrick stood up. "No, that's bullshit. You can't blame everything on me this time. You checked out of our relationship too."

"I seem to remember putting on a rubber suit to satisfy your perverse urges only a week before our untimely end. How is that checking out?"

"Because dressing up and pretending nothing's wrong wasn't the way to fix things!"

"Oh, now you know how to fix things? Please, Pat. Enlighten me." Chad scoffed.

"That." Patrick pointed at him. "That voice, right there. Every time you talk to me like that, I want to put your face through a fucking wall."

"So do it." Chad sneered, stepping almost nose-to-nose with Patrick. He stared him down for a long moment, Patrick breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists, his huge muscled body vibrating with a rage he never let out. Chad smiled, leaning closer, their mouths practically touching. "We both know you won't."

There was a strange, charged moment where they looked right at each other and Chad actually thought Patrick was going to do something for once—kiss him, knock his teeth out, yell in his face— but he didn't. Chad sighed, stepping away from him. "That's your problem, Pat. You're so angry all the time, and I don't even think you remember why anymore."

"You're helping me remember." Patrick said, his jaw still clenched.

Chad threw up his hands. "Remember what? What did I do that was so horrible?" There was a long moment of silence, and Chad suddenly realized that more than anything, he was just exhausted, tired of fighting, tired of being angry, tired of having the same fight and not getting anywhere. He finally broke the long silence between them. "I don't get it, Pat. It was like one day, you just gave up on us. And if it was something I did, please just…tell me."

Patrick shook his head. "It's too late."

Chad sighed, stepping closer to him, his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't know how to break this to you, baby, but we're not going anywhere. Talk to me."

Patrick licked his lips, looking down at the floor when he spoke. "Do you remember that day…when I told you…when I told you we weren't getting Sophie?"

Chad nodded. Sophie had been the name they'd chosen for their daughter before the birth mother, a girl Patrick had met through work, had backed out of the adoption. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I remember."

"When I came home, and I told you it wasn't going to happen…you just looked at me and said…" Patrick's voice broke as he went on, "you said, 'I don't know why I expected anything different.' Like you knew I'd fuck it up. Like me letting you down was just a foregone conclusion. Once I got that in my head, once I realized what you really thought of me, I couldn't talk to you. I could barely look at you. And when I started sleeping with Alex—that was my trainer's name—"

"I really don't need to know his name."

"I did it because he actually listened to me. He didn't think I was a failure. He didn't think taking classes to become a paramedic was a waste of time. He made me feel good about myself, and he actually wanted to have sex with me. So it happened. I fucked up. And when I came home after, I knew you knew. You could see it on my face. You have such a freaky good sense of smell you could probably smell him. I didn't try to cover it up. I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you. But you didn't even bother to fight with me. You didn't care. You started all that "Don't ask, don't tell" bullshit because you never cared about me. I was just a prop to make you look good. You never respected me, or my job, or my opinion."

"Pat—"

Patrick pushed him away. "You didn't! You always judged me for not going to college. You would barely even let me talk to your friends from Stanford so I wouldn't embarrass you by saying something too working-class."

"None of this is coming from me." Chad protested.

"When I took the dishes into the kitchen, one of your friends called me a "blue-collar himbo" and you laughed." Patrick crossed his arms over his chest.

"I…" Chad's voice faltered for a moment. "I didn't know you heard that. I'm sorry. I was being an idiot. Every time we all get together, it becomes this sick competition, and I let it get to me."

"You were never proud of me. Never supportive of anything I wanted." Patrick couldn't stop now that he'd started. "I was always supportive of you. We always did everything you wanted. Anywhere you wanted to go for dinner, that's where we went. We lived where you wanted to live. We had sex like twice a year because that's what you wanted. You picked out my clothes for events. You told me what movies and music and shows "we" liked. You made every single decision in our relationship, and treated me like your dumb arm candy that you liked to show off at nightclubs. I was your perfect man, as long as I didn't speak."

Chad shrugged his shoulders wearily. "Fine. If we're being perfectly honest, fine. When we first met, I liked you for entirely shallow reasons. You were the best-looking guy I'd ever seen, and I couldn't figure out why you were even talking to me. I did like showing you off in nightclubs. And I can be a bossy, controlling asshole. I'd never been in a long-term relationship before you, and I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn't want you to know that, so I overreached and tried to control everything so I wouldn't lose you." Chad ran a hand through his hair. "What about you? It seems like you hate pretty much everything about me. So why'd you ever even approach me? That first night, why'd you talk to me?"

Patrick crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Completely shallow reasons. I thought you looked rich, and that you'd pay all my bills."

Chad blinked with surprise at such blunt honesty, but realized that Patrick was being sarcastic as he went on. "I mean, that's what everyone thought about us, right? That I only liked you for your money, and you only liked me because I looked good in sleeveless shirts." Patrick sighed heavily. "I'd never been in a long-term relationship either, Chad. And everything happened so fast with us. We were living together in a month. Maybe…" He rubbed his mouth with his hand. "Maybe we were just too different to ever really make it work."

"But you said it first." Chad watched him carefully. "You said 'I love you' first. You kissed me that first night. You asked me to have a baby with you. To get a house."

"I know."

"Why did you do all of that, if you hate me so much?"

"I don't hate you." Patrick said quietly.

Chad looked at him for a long moment. "I never thought you were a failure. I always thought you were too good for me, and I was terrified every day that you were going to leave me. When I said…what I said about losing Sophia, I was talking about myself. I was talking about the sinking feeling in my stomach that I was just an ugly, awkward kid who got shipped off to boarding school and college in order to grow into an ugly, awkward adult who got paid inordinate amounts of money to make other people's lives look perfect while pretending mine wasn't a lonely, hollow disaster." Chad let out a long breath. He had never shared these feelings with anyone. "I wanted someone different from me, and all the horrible, selfish people I'd grown up loathing. I wanted you, more than I'd ever wanted anything."

"I wanted you too, babe." Patrick said sadly. "But maybe…before we met…we had the right idea to just stay away from relationships. Maybe you just always end up wanting to kill each other in the end."

Chad smiled, leaning back against the wall. "Do you really want to kill me?"

"Sometimes." Patrick leaned over him, his hand gently resting on the side of Chad's neck as he kissed him, almost experimentally, just to see what it would feel like after years of constantly being at each other's throats. Chad didn't reach out for him, but he didn't push him away as the embrace grew deeper, both out of breath when they finally broke apart. They had gone so long without a shred of affection between them that even a kiss felt incredibly intimate.

"Are we calling a temporary cease-fire?" Chad asked with a small smile, smoothing Patrick's hair back off his forehead.

"Depends." Patrick started to loosen Chad's tie. "Is that your snobby way of asking me to have ghost sex?"

"We're not done talking." Chad said sternly.

"We've got forever." Patrick shrugged, pulling off his t-shirt, laughing at the look on Chad's face. "What?"

"Nothing. You'll judge me for thinking shallow thoughts." Chad grinned.

"Oh, see…this is awkward. I was fully expecting you to pay me for this after." Patrick smiled back.

"Damn it. Everyone _was_ right about us." Chad was still laughing when Patrick kissed him again, but soon Chad was kissing him back, Patrick unbuttoning Chad's ridiculously expensive shirt as Chad unzipped Patrick's jeans, leaving a trail of clothes behind as they made their way to the bed, both finding that ending six years of celibacy suddenly seemed much more important than the petty differences that had separated them, finally and passionately reconciling in the bedroom that had housed so much bitterness and anger between them when they were alive. Patrick buried his head in Chad's shoulder at the end, Chad's hand clenching in the sheets, finding that it actually was a nice change to let Patrick take control for once.

Afterwards, they lay side-by-side, looking up at the ceiling, a big, goofy smile on Patrick's face.

"I feel like I need a cigarette after that." Patrick looked over at Chad.

"Honey, you're a medical professional. You can't smoke."

"Yeah. But you know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know what you mean." Chad kissed him, gently stroking Patrick's chin with his thumb. "Make-up sex. Worth all the hype?"

"Totally." Patrick smiled.

Suddenly, the door to the master bedroom opened, a young couple walking over the threshold and dropping their suitcases in surprise when they saw Chad and Patrick in their bed for the weekend.

"Hi there. I'm Patrick, and this is my boyfriend Chad. We died here. But you probably already know that." Patrick gave them a friendly smile, Chad snickering beside him.

"Your first ghost sighting of the weekend. Congratulations." Chad clapped his hands together with a smile. "You now have the rare distinction of nearly catching us _in flagrante delicto_."

"The very rare distinction." Patrick sighed.

"Let's go." Chad rolled his eyes, placing his hand on Patrick's arm before they disappeared entirely, the bed perfectly made up and their scattered clothes gone in their wake.

The couple looked at each other for a silent, stunned moment before the girl squeezed her husband's hand with an excited little squeal. "The people on the Murder House forums are going to _freak_!"

"Hey! You're back early." Violet's roommate Lexi smiled happily when she walked back into their apartment after a long, depressing drive back to Berkeley. "How was L.A.?" 

"It was okay." Violet shrugged, dropping her bags in her room before joining Lexi at the kitchen table, Lexi clicking off the "Real Housewives" marathon she'd been watching. Lexi had seemed like a total nightmare when Violet first met her- blond, big boobs, fond of wearing pink polo shirts and tennis skirts, dating the president of the campus' biggest fraternity, the kind of sorority girl Violet thought only existed to die in horror movies. They'd gotten placed as roommates randomly, and Violet was fully prepared to hate her, but Lexi had ended up winning her over. She was one of the nicest people Violet had ever met, but also had a devilishly subversive sense of humor and surprisingly good taste in music. They'd always had different groups of friends, but roomed together all four years of college, and Lexi knew her well enough that she sensed something was up before Violet had even sat down at the table.

"What's wrong?" Lexi asked.

Violet sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Nothing. It was just…kind of weird. I went back to my old neighborhood. Saw my old house. Ran into my first boyfriend."

"Yikes. I hate running into exes." Lexi shuddered. "How was that? Seeing him again?"

Violet considered this question for a moment, unable to talk about him without smiling. "It was like…do you ever have those people that you can go forever without talking, and then you see each other again, and it's like nothing's changed? Like you just pick up right where you left off?"

Lexi's big blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. She had never seen Violet look this excited talking about a guy, ever. "You hooked up with him, didn't you?"

"We…yeah. We did…some stuff."

Lexi shook her head. "Is he why you broke up with that perfectly nice guy from your thesis class? Because you thought you might run into him again when you went home?"

"No." Violet said, as if Lexi was being ridiculous.

"Vi."

Violet sighed heavily. "Okay, fine. Yes. I never got over him, and I know it's sad and pathetic, but I didn't judge you for breaking up and getting back together with Chris like fifty different times."

"True." Lexi conceded. "So how did you guys leave things? Are you back together?"

"No, I mean he lives…really far away."

"Out of state?"

"Way out of state." Violet said gloomily.

"And long-distance relationships never work."

"I know."

Lexi put her hand over Violet's with a small smile. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"If it's meant to be, it will all work out."

"What, like destiny?" Violet snorted with laughter.

"You don't have to pretend to be all cynical." Lexi grinned. "I have this crazy theory that you believe in destiny and soulmates just as much as everybody else."

"What are you basing that on?"

"The fact that you've been in love with the same guy since you were fifteen." Lexi rather astutely pointed out, patting Violet's hand before going to the fridge and getting them both a beer. She twisted off the caps before sitting back down with Violet. "I actually think it's really sweet. I feel like I know you even better now. You were always so hard on guys, and I could never figure out why, but now I get it…you were just comparing all of them to him."

Violet took a sip of her beer, her lips curving into a small smile. "Thanks, Lex."

"For what?"

"For not calling me crazy."

Lexi shrugged. "Hey. You feel how you feel." She clinked the neck of her beer against Violet's with a grin. "So tell me all about him."

Constance smiled triumphantly when she heard the back door open later that same night. She knew Larry would come crawling back eventually, tail firmly between his legs.

"That didn't take long." She crossed her arms over her chest, ready for Larry's apology.

But it wasn't Larry who walked into the kitchen. The figure was too tall and broad-shouldered to be Larry, but his face was mostly hidden in shadows for a moment, Constance squinting to see better, her heart suddenly speeding up with excitement. "Tate? Honey, is that you?"

"Don't you wish." It was Eli, in an all black three-piece suit, his wavy blond hair slicked back, and a long distinctive scar over his left eye from his run-in with Violet now defacing his handsome features. Eli put his hands in his pockets. "Hello, mother."

Constance looked more annoyed than surprised by his appearance. "Well, well. The bad seed returns."

"That's how you greet your last living child?" Eli walked towards her, his odd, almost graceful stride eerily similar to his mother's. "I'm the only one who survived you, mother. That has to count for something."

"What do you want, Eli? Applause? It doesn't exactly inspire a mother's pride when her son proves time and time again that he's a soulless psychopath."

Eli snorted with laughter. "Like you're some saint. Where's your little deformed boyfriend tonight?"

"Laurence is my business partner."

"Right. Some business. He does your taxes, you suck his cock." Eli shook his head. "What is it with you and this guy? It's been thirty years, and you're still stringing him along. It's just pathetic at this point."

"Says the grown man coming home and begging for his mother's approval." Constance laughed cruelly. "You know, Eli, I had it all wrong. You were never the strong one. At least your brother found someone to love him and moved on from this place. But you're still here, all alone, circling this house like an ugly old buzzard. When you were younger, and I'd see that darkness in your eyes, I knew you were going to be a killer. There was no two ways about it. I often considered the possibility that I'd be doing the world a favor by just smothering you in your sleep."

Eli pressed his mouth together, his jaw twitching slightly. "So what stopped you?"

"If I killed you in this house, I'd never be rid of you. That was the one silver lining of your sweet brother dying in your place. Everyone loved having him around, just like when he was alive. You'd be nothing but a virus infecting this place. Just like when you were alive. You don't deserve to be here. You deserve to be in prison. Ideally due for a lethal injection."

"And what do you deserve?" Eli asked, crossing to her, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. "You know what they say. Monsters aren't born. They're made. You're an old adulterous whore who murdered her husband and maid for the exact same sins you'd been committing for years. You can't stand the sight of me because I'm just like you. We're both conscienceless killers. And we both got away with it. You only hate me because I'm all the nasty little parts you hate in yourself."

"I don't hate you, Eli. That would imply some kind of feeling towards you at all. You bore me. All I want…all anyone wants…is for you to go away."

"Shut up!" Eli shouted, pulling a gun from inside his jacket and whipping his mother across the face, Constance falling to the ground but not crying out, just clutching her cheek in furious silence. Eli stood over her, pointing the gun right between her eyes when she looked back up to him.

"You're not getting rid of me, mother. We're the same. And you and I are staying here, together. Forever."

Constance, even literally looking down the barrel of a gun with blood seeping between her fingers, didn't flinch or show a flicker of fear. She just stared evenly back at him, her voice cool and calm. "A murder-suicide? How unoriginal of you."

Eli clicked off the safety of the gun. "See you on the other side."

"Drop the gun, Eli."

Eli didn't turn around at the sound of Larry's voice, but his finger hesitated on the trigger. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking slightly. He hadn't counted on Larry returning. "Come on, Larry. I'm doing you a fucking favor."

Constance watched in silence as Larry slowly walked up behind Eli, speaking in a low, calming voice. "Drop the gun. We can get you help."

"I don't want help. I want to be with my family." Eli's voice broke, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he turned his head slightly to the side, speaking to Larry. "And I don't mean _you_."

"All I ever wanted was to be a father to you boys. Not being there for you and Tate is the biggest regret of my life."

Eli blinked rapidly, starting to lose his nerve. Constance's eyes flicked to Larry with an expression he couldn't quite read. He didn't dare hope it was love, but it was closer than she'd ever come to it before. She slowly rose to her feet, still clutching her cheek, her eyes still on Larry's.

"Get down! Get the fuck down!" Eli shouted, his attention fully back on his mother.

Constance gave Larry a small nod, and he seized the opportunity of Eli's momentary distraction, grabbing his arms from behind and pinning them behind Eli's back, the gun clattering to the floor and misfiring as the two men struggled. Larry cried out as the bullet pierced his stomach, Eli using all his strength to push back against him, sending them both crashing into the kitchen cabinets, shattering the glass in the cabinet doors. Both men were too stunned by the impact to move right away, Eli recovering first, scrambling to his feet and diving for the gun on the ground at the same time as Constance, Eli a second too slow, his mother operating purely on survival instinct and firing two shots directly into his chest.

Eli crumpled to the floor, looking up at his mother and letting out a weak cry of surprise when he saw Tate suddenly appear behind her, his twin brother taking in the violent scene with wide eyes. Constance seemed to sense Tate's presence, struck with a sudden bizarre impulse, grabbing Tate's hand and pulling him forward, her voice strained and insistent.

"Now, Tate. Now it's your time." She clasped Eli and Tate's hands together, Eli trying to speak but choking on blood as he writhed in pain on the floor, Tate looking at his mother with a horrified, confused expression.

"Tate…" Eli finally managed to say it, Tate looking down at his brother, Constance gripping their hands together with vice-like strength, not letting Tate pull away or Eli let go.

Suddenly, Tate's body started convulsing like he was gripping an electric fence, his eyes rolling back in his head as Eli let out one final cry of agony. In a brief moment, all the lights in the house went out, and when they came back on, Tate's spirit was nowhere to be seen and Eli was unconscious and silent, his slightly twitching left hand the only remaining sign of life.

Constance heard police sirens outside—one of the guests must have called the police after hearing the sound of gunshots— red and blue lights flashing outside the windows of Murder House, and when she heard a small groan from Larry, she was suddenly isolate a terrible thought whirling through her confused mind—if Larry died off Murder House property, he'd be gone for good.

She crossed to his side, nearly slipping in his blood as she fell to her knees, looking down at his half-closed eyes and taking his good hand in both of hers. "Laurence. Look at me."

Larry's head lolled to the side, using all of his strength to look up, smiling as always at the sight of her. "Constance." He said her name like he was savoring it, like he was perfectly happy with her name being his last word.

"I'm so sorry." Her grip tightened on his hand, both of them surprised when her voice came out slightly choked.

"No. Don't say that, baby." Larry shook his head. "This is all I ever wanted."

Constance's brow furrowed with confusion, but before she could ask him what he meant, the police burst through the front door, guns drawn as they raced into the kitchen. "Hands up! Hands up!"

Since Constance was the only person on the scene still able to stand, she was the only one who obeyed, her hands clasped behind her head as she took in the scene, including the still-open back door, and quickly formulated the only suitable explanation. She broke down in tears before she turned around to face the police, putting on a very good show of being a distraught, terrified innkeeper. "A man…broke in….he attacked me…he shot my son and my boyfriend…he was wearing some kind of mask…I didn't see his face—but when he heard the sirens, he ran out the back door."

One of the cops took off out the back door, the other one taking in the blood-soaked crime scene. The paramedics loaded Eli on the stretcher first, Constance clasping her hands together as she watched. "Is he still alive?"

The female paramedic checked Eli's pulse. "Yes, ma'am. He's holding on. We'll take good care of him, I promise."

"See that you do." Constance said sternly, turning back around to the medics who were checking Larry for signs of life. "Well?" she demanded.

The paramedics exchanged a look, clearly dreading having to give her this news. "He's gone. I'm so sorry, ma'am."

Constance felt a huge wave of relief wash over her. He'd died on house property. He'd be back. But she forced an expression of stricken grief onto her features. "No…please, there must be something you can do." She buried her face in her hands, breaking down in tears.

By now, the front foyer was full of bed and breakfast guests watching the scene play out, the whole group huddled together, hands clasped over their faces in horror. The cops had called for reinforcements, and the newly arrived officers were guiding the guests away from the crime scene and into the study for questioning.

"Guest records, get the guest records…" One of the officers hurried to the front desk, printing out the list of everyone currently staying in the hotel.

An older male officer gently put a hand on Constance's shoulder. "Ma'am, we just need a brief statement, anything you can tell us about the intruder, and then we'll give you a ride to the hospital to see your son."

"Of course. A-Anything I can do." Constance said, watching Eli's chest rising and falling on the stretcher as they wheeled him out of the house. Through some miracle, one of her sons was still clinging to life on that stretcher.

But which son?

"I think he's coming to." The paramedic leaned over Eli, shining a light into his dark brown eyes as the car pulled up to the emergency entrance to the hospital.

"Son, can you hear us?"

"Y-Yes." Eli's voice came out as a weak groan.

"Can you tell us your name?"

Eli looked up, appearing more lucid as his eyes focused on the paramedic's face. "My name?"

"Yes."

"It's Tate. Tate Langdon."

A/N- Until next chapter! Next time— Tate has to adjust to life outside of Murder House (and in his evil twin's body), Constance recruits Violet to give Tate a place to stay as he "adjusts", Violet graduates and enters into her adult life as a starving artist and Starbuck barista while she tries to figure out if living together and having lots of sex with the newly alive Tate means they're finally in a real relationship, Patrick attempts to be a good boyfriend and utterly confuses Chad, Ghost Larry infuriates Constance by not immediately reappearing, and Violet's college roommate Lexi invites Violet and Tate on a couples vacation to the coast. I love reading your reviews—and I hope everyone has a Happy New Year!


	6. Cruelty's Your Art, Baby

A/N- Thanks for the reviews guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Love in the Afterlife

Chapter Six

At first, when he made his way out of the tunnel, it felt like passing under a waterfall. Peaceful. Refreshing. But the farther he crawled forward—and Tate felt like he must keep moving forward—the more difficult it became. The air was thick and stifling. It was so dark he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face, rather tentatively getting to his feet, unable to tell if he had adequate room to stand. There was nothing above his head, but the water steadily dripping down around him now was so cold it hurt his skin, and suddenly it began to gush down in torrents, like someone had just opened a dam above him. But he couldn't escape. It was all around him, the water level rising with alarming speed from his ankles to his knees to his waist then neck and finally over his head, as Tate took a deep breath and dove underwater, feeling out the slightly rounded stone wall with his hands and realizing he was trapped at the bottom of a cavernous well.

Soon he had no choice but to start swimming upwards. The water must be coming from somewhere. There had to be a way out. His lungs started burning from lack of oxygen, but he kept going, taking wide, broad strokes with his arms and legs, seeing a circular ring of light appear high above him, as if someone was moving away the stone covering the top of the well. The cold water burned Tate's eyes, but he forced himself to keep them open, not daring to look away when there was sunlight and warmth and air above him, if he could only make it for a few more seconds, if he could just keep going a little farther…

Suddenly, Tate saw the silhouette of a dark figure looking down at him, mercifully extending a hand to help him. It was Eli. Tate made one last push for the surface, his lungs feeling like they were about to explode before he could finally raise his head above water, gasping for breath and gratefully seizing Eli's hand. Eli hauled him out of the water and over the edge, onto a bed of grass. Tate was shivering and weak as Eli helped him lie down on his back, Tate turning to the side and coughing violently. Eli placed his hand on Tate's shoulder as he watched his brother try to regain his breath.

"Are you all right?" Eli asked quietly when Tate gingerly sat up, wiping off his mouth.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Tate's teeth were chattering even in the blazing sunlight, his voice hoarse and strained. He ran a hand through his damp blond curls. "Thanks for saving me."

"Of course. You're my brother." Eli smiled, and it wasn't a smirk. It was a genuine smile, almost too big—the way a child smiles before the world teaches them to be self-conscious.

"I thought you hated me."

Eli shook his head. "All I ever wanted was to be like you. And I couldn't. And I hated that about you. I was never good. Or kind. Girls never liked me the way they liked you. And we both know mom would have been much happier if she'd just had you. Her perfect little angel."

"That's not true—"

"Yeah, it is. She just told me as much. But it's okay. That's all going to change now. Now we're both here, and we can go back together. Start over as a family."

"Go back where?"

"Back home." Eli said simply, looking over his shoulder at the bizarre sight of a doorway standing in the middle of the field.

"That's the way out of here? Back to the house? For good this time?" Tate's eyes lit up.

"I think so." Eli nodded with a smile.

"Violet…" Tate said under his breath, scrambling to his feet and racing towards the door.

Eli's smile fell. "That's why you want to go back? For her?"

Tate stopped with his hand on the doorknob, turning back around to face his brother. "Of course, for her. She's everything. She's the love of my life."

"You wouldn't even have a life if I hadn't helped you just now."

Tate sighed. "You're the reason I died in the first place, Eli. I wouldn't go applying for sainthood just yet."

"If you hadn't died that day, you never even would have met Violet. You should be thanking me."

"You're right." Tate clapped a hand to his chest, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you. Thank you for shooting up my high school and framing me for it. Thank you for pretending to be me and fucking my girlfriend before you tried to murder her. You've been a terrific brother. I _should_ be more grateful." Tate shook his head in disbelief, turning back to the doorway and opening the door.

"You're not walking away from me!" Eli yelled, starting to cross the field towards Tate and the doorway. "You're my brother!"

"Goodbye, Eli." Tate walked through the doorway, closing it behind him. As soon as he did, it disappeared entirely. There was only enough space for one soul to pass through and sink into the bullet-ravaged body on the other side, back at Murder House, back in the world of the living.

Eli sank to his knees in the grass, weeping bitterly into his hands, finally knowing the truth. He had run out of narrow escapes. He had passed on. He was stuck here, alone, for eternity. And he had no one to blame but himself.

"The doctor said he seems completely lucid and aware of his surroundings, but swears up and down he's Tate Langdon." Constance smoothed her son's hair back off his forehead as he slept peacefully in his hospital bed, Billie Dean standing at the foot of the bed and looking him over thoughtfully. Constance looked up at her, apprehension in her eyes. "Tell me the truth. Is there even reason to hope that it's possible? That I really have my precious boy back?"

"Of course it's possible." Billie Dean nodded. "It's a very old magic, but that doesn't make it any less powerful. When a person dies in another's place, whether willingly or not, their souls are forever linked. And when there's a familial connection, the bond is even stronger. The souls of mothers who have died for their children are oftentimes the easiest spirits to contact, for example. I believe that Tate and Eli's souls were so intertwined by Eli's evil sacrifice of his brother that when Eli passed while in direct contact with the ghost of his brother, Tate's spirit entered Eli's body. The universe isn't uniformly cruel, Mrs. Langdon. Perhaps fate thought Tate deserved a second chance at life after his first one was taken away so unjustly."

Constance looked a little bored with all of this spiritual mumbo-jumbo, but eager to hone in on the point. "So the boy in this hospital bed right now is Tate?"

"His body is Eli's. His soul is Tate's." Billie Dean said in that maddeningly know-it-all tone, like she was always completely certain she was right even in the most outlandish of situations.

But Constance didn't want to argue with her this time, because she desperately wanted Billie Dean to be right.

"When were Tate and Eli born?" Billie Dean asked thoughtfully.

"June 3, 1977."

"Ah." Billie Dean gave her a sage nod. "Under the astrological sign of the Gemini. The sign of the twins. Historically represented by two boys— polar opposites, but mystically interchangeable. Forgive me for bordering on trite, but it seems this was written in the stars, Mrs. Langdon."

"Hmm." Constance didn't seem totally convinced, placing her hands together in her lap. "Thank you for coming by, Miss Howard."

"Of course. Please let me know if you need any further consultation."

"I will. And thank you again. You've been very helpful."

"Expect my bill." Billie Dean nodded with a small smile, leaving the hospital room.

Constance looked at her son for a long moment, resting her hand on his cheek. He looked like an angel when he slept. Maybe Billie Dean really was right.

But it couldn't hurt to get a second opinion.

"Hey, Lex. What are you doing out here?" Violet walked up to their on-campus apartment after her last final, her brow furrowed at the sight of Lexi pacing back and forth in front of their door on her cell phone.

Lexi hung up the phone, letting out a sigh of mingled relief and frustration. "Where have you been? I've been calling you for twenty minutes!"

"I turned off my phone. For my final." Violet crossed to her. "What's up?"

Lexi lowered her voice to a whisper. "Some weird lady came here looking for you. She said her name is Constance, and she was friends with your parents."

Violet snorted with laughter. "That's a stretch."

"She's totally bizarre. She's like wearing a gown. And she kept making all these comments about how small our apartment is. She looked in all the rooms, and like went through my jewelry while we were talking. It was creepy. I just stepped outside to call you." Lexi looked behind her nervously. "I'm kind of scared she's going to steal my stuff."

"I'll handle this." Violet shook her head.

"Okay. I'm going to go hang out with Chris. Call me later and tell me what's going on."

"I will."

Lexi gave her a little wave before pulling out her keys and unlocking her white Mustang with a little beep-beeping noise. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Violet walked into the apartment, finding Constance sitting at their kitchen table, looking through the new issue of _Cosmopolitan_ Lexi had left out. Lexi subscribed to the magazine, but Violet secretly always looked forward to reading it when Lexi wasn't around. "Hey, Constance."

Constance didn't look up right away, seemingly engrossed in an article. She read the headline out loud to Violet. "How To Have a 15 Minute Orgasm." Constance set down the magazine, clasping her hands together. "Good lord."

"What are you doing here?" Violet asked, exhausted from finals and really just wanting to take a nap, but more than a little curious what was going on. "What happened to your face?"

Constance ignored her last question, rather self-consciously resting her chin in her hand to cover the large bandage over her cheekbone. She'd had to get stitches from where Eli had struck her and broken the skin, and Constance was terrified it was going to scar. She decided to address Violet's first question instead. "I need your assistance with something."

"What?"

"It's about Tate."

"What about him?"

"He's come back. For good this time."

Violet went slightly pale, but kept her expression neutral. "You saw him? In the house?"

"Yes." Constance seemed to be choosing her next words very carefully. "One week ago, Eli, Laurence, and I had a bit of a…family altercation. And…suddenly, I just knew Tate was there. I turned around and I saw him. Eli was dying, and…something happened between the two boys. Something I can't explain." She trailed off for a moment.

"Constance. Get to the point." Violet's voice shook her back to reality.

"Eli's passed on. And through some…miracle…Tate's spirit entered his brother's body. They've switched places. And it seems to be permanent."

Violet rubbed her forehead wearily. "Constance. I'm about to graduate. I'm moving next week. I don't have time to listen to your little fantasy." 

Constance's eyes narrowed. "Spare me your charade of disbelief. I know you saw Tate during your very brief visit. Moira told me. After I was kind enough to fit you into the schedule at my place of business, you were still trying to keep my son all to yourself."

"If he'd wanted to see you then, he would have." Violet shrugged.

"Look, Violet," Constance rose to her full impressive height, "we don't have to be friendly. In fact, I don't really give a damn whether you like me or not. But, in light of recent circumstances, it looks like we're going to have to be in each other's lives, at least for now. We need to be there for Tate, together." She sighed, finally coming to the truth. "And he's been asking for you."

"How do you know it's not Eli? Maybe he's just completely lost it and thinks he's Tate."

"Come see for yourself." Constance countered. "Or you'll never know."

Violet was silent for a long moment. Finally, she took a deep breath, running a hand through her long dark hair. "Let me get my stuff."

"He's still weak and gets tired very easily. We try to limit his time with visitors." The nurse looked skeptically at Violet. "How do you know the patient again?"

"We grew up together." Violet said, not sure how else to put it.

"Well, I hope you coming here will help him. He still seems very confused."

Violet nodded, mumbling under her breath as she walked into the room—"He's not the only one."

The visual impact of seeing Tate or Eli or whatever Langdon brother this really was really sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed out of Murder House and in the real world caused Violet to stop dead for a moment, her chest constricting painfully. She felt suddenly dizzy, like she couldn't take a deep enough breath. She wanted to turn and run away. She wasn't ready to face this. But then she suddenly heard Tate's voice in her head, the week they had first met—

_I thought you weren't afraid of anything._

Violet swallowed hard, stepping closer. When she stood over him, she could clearly see the long, jagged scar she had inflicted across his left eye. The person lying in the bed was more powerfully built than Tate, the muscles of his shoulders and arms straining the thin hospital gown even as he slept, and his skin was slightly more tanned. By all outward appearances, this was Eli Langdon. Her hand went unconsciously to her stomach, where her own skin still bore the scars of the last time she and Eli had met. Violet never went anywhere without at least wearing a camisole to hide her stomach so her scars would never accidentally show. It wasn't vanity—it was more like self-protection. She felt defenseless and vulnerable whenever she looked down at them, and she hated showing any sign of weakness to the outside world.

She had never let anyone but Tate see her scars, when they had spent the night together last week. Tate had cried when she had showed him, Violet's eyes burning with tears as well, Tate saying he was sorry over and over. She had told him it wasn't his fault. She remembered the feeling of his breath on her bare skin, his thumb gently tracing the longest of her scars as he told her how beautiful she was before he kissed his way down her stomach and then lower—

Violet mentally shook herself. This was not the time to remember any of…that. She was here for a reason. She'd heard Constance's version of the story. Now it was time to discover the truth.

"Can you hear me?" Her voice was quiet, but he stirred immediately at the sound, opening his eyes and looking up at her.

"Violet." He breathed out. "Am I dreaming?"

"No." She looked down at him, her eyes slightly narrowed. "Who are you? Really?"

"It's me, Vi. I swear."

"Don't lie to me." She shook her head, her voice a stern warning.

"I'm not. Eli's gone. For good." He sat up slightly in bed, wincing but needing her to hear him and understand. "I came back for you. And I don't know how…but this is where I ended up. I took his place. I didn't know it was going to happen. But I'm here."

Violet sank into the chair next to his hospital bed, putting her head in her hands for a moment, completely overwhelmed. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Tate's features softened with concern. "I'm sorry. I know this is a lot. I'm still trying to figure this all out too. But I promise you. It's me. I'm Tate."

Violet looked up at him. "Prove it. Tell me something only Tate would know."

He considered this for a moment. "One time, a couple weeks after we first met, we were hanging out in the basement and listening to some of my old records, and I played you a bootleg of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love singing "Asking For It." You told me that you decorated your whole bedroom based on Hole's "Live Through This" album, and that you liked to tell people that your parents named you for that song "Violet." And then I told you that Kurt Cobain helped her write that whole album, and you got all pissed off and told me that he only sang back-up vocals on a few songs and that you thought it was bullshit that he should get all the credit for her best album. We got into a stupid argument about it, and you got really mad at me, and I thought it was so hot. I finally said you were right, and you started the bootleg over, and we ended up making out to it on the staircase, and it was the first time you let me go to second base, and I thought it was the coolest night ever."

Violet's lips curved into a small smile, her eyes slightly glassy. "If you live through this with me…"

"…I swear that I will die for you." He finished the lyric from "Asking For It." "I told you one time I thought we should get a tattoo of that and I could totally tell you wanted to but you just told me to stop being weird."

"I did kind of want to." Violet wiped at her cheeks, shaking her head. "This is so insane. I feel like I'm hallucinating."

"Me too. Like we're both going to wake up, and never see each other again."

Violet ran a hand through her hair, letting out a long breath. "So what happens now?"

"Then you believe me?" he asked hopefully.

She made him wait out an excruciatingly long silence before she spoke again. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

He let out a breath of relief, reaching out and taking her hand. "I love you. Violet, I love you so much. I don't care what happens from here as long as we're together."

She didn't say anything back right away, and before she could, the nurse knocked on the door, entering the room and giving Violet an annoyed look when she saw him sitting up and active. "All right, Eli. It's time for you to get some rest."

"Okay. Let me just say goodbye to my friend."

The nurse nodded curtly. "Then you rest."

"I will."

Violet raised her eyebrows when the door was closed again. "Eli?"

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Well, if I keep saying I'm Tate, they're going to think I'm crazy. I have to be declared mentally competent to not get sent back to the mental hospital. So I figured I'll just play along until they let me out of here."

"Right." Violet nodded. "I guess I should let you rest. Before she goes all Nurse Ratched on me."

He laughed. "Okay. Are you staying in town?"

Violet nodded. "I was actually planning on moving into an apartment here in LA next week. Some of my furniture's already there, and it's vacant for the time being, so I guess I'll just stay there for now."

"Thanks for coming." He squeezed her hand.

"Of course."

They looked at each other, Tate biting his tongue to keep from saying he loved her like fifty more times and Violet not sure what the hell she wanted to say to him.

"Okay, bye." She finally mumbled awkwardly, pulling her hand away and walking out of the room, nearly running straight into Constance who'd clearly been waiting for her outside.

"Well?" Constance held out her hands expectantly.

"It's him." Violet said without looking at her, pushing past Constance and into the nearest bathroom, closing the stall door behind her and falling to her knees in front of the toilet, gagging and finally throwing up the cheap hospital coffee and muffin she'd eaten earlier.

Violet leaned her head against the cool metal wall of the bathroom stall, feeling like the floor was spinning underneath her. This was too much. She'd never even bothered to wish for something like this happening because it seemed too impossible. Tate was here. Living. Breathing. Once he was out of the hospital, they could go anywhere. Do anything. They had a future. It was everything she could have wanted.

And she'd never felt more terrified.

"We've thoroughly searched the grounds and haven't turned up anything. It may have just been a random incident. But please don't hesitate to call us if you hear or see anything suspicious." The police officer, a tall blond woman with a gravelly voice who'd been the lead officer on the Murder House homicide and working with Constance for the last week, looked around the empty foyer. "Will you be all right here by yourself, ma'am?"

"Of course." Constance sniffed.

"All right. Call me if you need me." The officer's expression softened slightly. "And I'm very sorry for your loss. My father passed away in the line of duty a few years ago, and if it makes you feel any better…I think the ones who love us never really leave us."

_Here's hoping_. Constance thought to herself, but she forced a "it's tough, but I'll manage" smile on her face. "Thank you for saying that. Goodnight, Officer."

"Goodnight, ma'am." The police officer gave her a curt nod, leaving out the front door. Constance locked up behind her, walking by the kitchen and trying to ignore the little twinge of sadness in her chest as she looked at the empty table where she and Laurence always talked after everyone else had gone to bed. The house was vacant until tomorrow morning, when new guests would be arriving. She had shut down the bed and breakfast for the past week so the police could complete their investigation, and when they had predictably come up with nothing, they had given her the all clear to open back up for business. She had informed the new guests of what had happened, and it didn't seem to put any of them off in the least. One more soul claimed by Murder House, possibly at the hands of the infamous Rubber Man, just further added to the mystique of the place.

Life would go back to normal soon. Better than normal—Tate had returned to her. Violet would probably monopolize all of his time once he was out of the hospital, but at least he was back. The thought comforted her. One of her children had the chance to be happy.

And maybe even the chance to give her grandchildren. It seemed like such a normal, commonplace thing to hope for, but Constance couldn't help it. She loved babies, and she certainly wasn't going to have any more herself. Maybe Violet could finally be good for something. Constance smiled to herself. There was always a silver lining. Everything was working out so well.

Except for one thing.

She had no idea why Laurence still wasn't here. She had spoken with some of the other ghosts in the house, and they had all told her that their spirits returned to Murder House almost immediately after dying. She hadn't yet stooped to the indignity of calling out for him, but the loneliness was becoming unbearable.

And in her conversations with the ghosts, something Chad had said continued to haunt her—

_"We're only seen when we want to be seen. Maybe he just doesn't want you anymore. Maybe he found clarity in death." _

Constance and Chad had a long-standing vituperative relationship, and she tried to assure herself that he was just trying to get to her, only being cruel as he always was. Laurence had loved her for over forty years. There was no way he was avoiding her.

So then where was he?

She glumly made her way to the guesthouse addition in the backyard she'd had put in when she opened the bed and breakfast. She had chosen to live out here, much too avaricious to waste a room that could make her money on herself. She had everything she needed in the guesthouse—a kitchen, living room, luxurious bath complete with a claw-foot tub, and an elegant bedroom done in an Old Hollywood style. The only concession she'd made to Larry basically living with her for the last two years was two drawers in the closet for his clothes, and a medicine cabinet in the bathroom for his toothbrush, razor, and comb.

After Constance took her bath and got ready for bed, she put on her white silk nightgown and sat down at the vanity in her bedroom, pouring herself a drink from her decanter of gin and taking a hearty swallow before turning on the lighted mirror and gingerly prying off the bandage over her cheek. Constance grimaced at the sight. Eli deserved what he got for doing this to her. She hated how she looked without make-up, and now it was even worse. She leaned closer to the mirror, dabbing around the wound with a self-made scar remedy of lavender and Vitamin E. She would do her best, but she knew it would fade but never go away. Time continued to ravage her beauty, it seemed.

Struck with a strange masochistic urge, and with no one left to look pretty for, Constance took down her perfectly styled hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. There was no make-up on her face. Her hair was wavy and unkempt. Her scar was red and irritated. She could hardly recognize herself. If she wasn't beautiful, she wasn't Constance. She finished her glass of gin in another sip, finding a comforting familiarity in the way the alcohol burned going down.

She looked at her reflection for a long moment, seeing herself as the little girl who'd grown up on a farm in Virginia, who'd wanted so much more for herself and seen her pretty face as the only way she was going to get it. What had happened to that girl? If she had known what was to come, she wouldn't have even bothered to dream such ludicrous things. She hadn't become a star. She hadn't really made anything of herself. And the only person who'd ever really loved her might now be gone forever.

She put her head in her hands, not crying, just tired. And lonely. Above everything else, she was lonely. Laurence had been such a constant companion to her for most of her life. She had no idea how to run this place without him. And more than just his business expertise, she missed him. There was no reason to deny it anymore. She missed his company. She missed someone sleeping next to her at night. She missed having someone who wanted to hear about her day.

And although it seemed vulgar to even think such a thing, she missed sex. There was no one to judge her for it anymore, so why not face the truth? Laurence wasn't handsome. He wasn't the kind of man she would ever picture herself with. But no one else had ever made her feel the way he had when they were together. It didn't make any sense. She would never tell another soul. But her fantasies were all her own. And there was one memory in particular she often returned to on lonely nights.

So, for a moment, Constance let herself remember.

1982

"What do you think?" Constance stood back, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at Larry, finding herself oddly hungry for his approval.

"I love it." Larry picked up her newest painting to see it better. She did all of her work in the dark, shadowy basement, and it was never carried upstairs. Constance didn't think Hugo would appreciate the admittedly dark subject matter of her works, and so this was a secret talent she had so far only shared with Larry and never indulged when anyone else was at home. "Orpheus, right?"

"Yes. Mourning Eurydice. I've been working my way through Greek mythology lately."

Larry looked up at her with a small smile, gently setting the painting back down on its easel. "I'm glad you let me be a part of this."

"You're the only one who would appreciate it." Constance looked at him for a moment, almost appraisingly. "Sometimes I feel like you're the only person on this earth who really knows me."

Larry blinked with surprise. Never, ever had Constance said something that sounded so close to revealing a shred of vulnerability. It took him a moment to find his voice. "I feel the same way. Like I fake it for everybody but you."

There was a long silence between them before Constance cleared her throat, looking away from him. "Tate's been drawing, did I tell you? His teacher said he has a real talent for it."

"Like mother, like son."

"I suppose. Only he draws nice things. Not death and destruction and mayhem like his mother. I suppose we all use art for our own purposes." Constance said with a small laugh. "It's the oddest feeling…he's such a sweet little boy, but I never quite feel like I can reach him. Like he's always somewhere else in his mind, imagining things. My little dreamer. I wish I was more like him. I wish I could look at him and see myself. But I don't. He's nothing like me. I was always…hard. Strong. More like his brother. Even as a child. I felt like I had to be. But I don't want that for him. I want him to stay innocent and gentle and kind, just so that I know that someone like that can even exist. Part of me just wants to shield him from the world, from all of its ugliness, so he never has to see things as they really are. I'm afraid he wouldn't survive reality if he ever really had to face it."

"Maybe he's stronger than you think." Larry shrugged.

"I hope so." Constance absently toyed with the string of pearls around her neck. Larry watched her, thinking that she looked so beautiful, wearing a crisp white shirtdress with chocolate brown boots. Larry smiled to himself, thinking that only Constance would wear a white dress to paint and not get a drop on it. "Will you help him, Laurence? If he ever needs it?"

"Of course." Larry said without a moment's hesitation. "Of course I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Constance reached out, her hand resting on his cheek. She leaned forward, Larry's eyes closing as she kissed him, briefly. A thank you. Nothing more. She pulled away after a moment, pressing her lips together.

"Laurence, I have to say something to you, and you're not going to like it."

"Uh-oh. Sounds ominous." Larry didn't sound too concerned. Constance made dramatic proclamations all the time, and they never really amounted to much.

"I've been giving this a lot of thought. And I think it's time we end this."

"What?" Larry's brow furrowed with confusion.

"This. Us. I feel like my family's coming apart at the seams, and I'm not helping anything by carrying on an affair with a married man."

"What do you mean, coming apart at the seams?"

Constance sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily. "Eli has some mental…issues that require professional care. Expensive professional care. Addy's barely making it at school, and needs private tutoring that we can't afford. Hugo's already drowning in debt trying to keep his business afloat and make the ridiculous payments on this place. Everything just feels like it's on the edge of breaking, and I feel like I have to be the rock for all of them now, and what I've been doing with you…it's selfish. It takes me further away from my family. I'm so sorry, Laurence. I do so appreciate everything you've done for me over the years. And I hope we're still in each other's lives. Just not…in the same way. Do you understand my meaning?"

Larry nodded, a white-hot anger flooding through him. "Oh, I got it. Loud and clear. We return to our separate miserable existences and just pretend the last six years never happened?"

"Don't be unkind about this. I'm trying to do the right thing."

Larry snorted with laughter. "Yeah, Constance. You're a real saint."

Constance raised her eyebrows. "What are you implying?"

"You started all of this! And I let you jerk me around for six years because I was stupid enough to think that one day you might actually give a damn about me. But clearly you don't. Clearly you never will. That's what I don't get about you, Constance. You never loved me. So why? Why start this at all? Why keep calling me? Revenge on your idiot husband? Just a way to pass the time? What the hell am I to you?"

"They're yours. Tate and Eli. They're yours, Laurence." It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She almost felt like he was right. She owed him at least this much. She owed him the truth.

Larry looked like he'd been punched in the stomach, taking in her news for a moment. Then suddenly he stepped forward, taking both her hands in his, his voice desperate. "Then leave him. Marry me."

Constance shook her head. "You're out of your mind—"

"Damn right I am. For you. Just say the word, and I'll leave Lorraine. I have the money to pay for this place, and Addy, and Eli, and Tate—I could take care of them. I could take care of all of you. I'm more of a husband to you than he's ever been. He doesn't love you. He's never been faithful. And you know it. So stop pretending you have this perfect family that I'm keeping you from."

"There's no such thing as a perfect family." Constance scoffed.

"But we could be a happy one." Larry looked over her face, letting out a long breath. "I love you, Constance."

"I know you do." She pulled her hands away. "But I don't love you. Not like that. And it would be cruel to lead you on any longer."

"Cruel?" Larry laughed out loud. "Cruelty's your art, baby. Why stop now?" 

"I think we've both said everything we need to. And I think you should leave now." Constance smoothed down her dress, speaking in her most imperious tone.

"Don't do that. Don't talk down to me, you arrogant bitch." Larry growled.

"I was using you, Laurence. All along. I thought you knew that. I never had feelings for you." Constance spat her words in his face, proving his claims of her cruelty. "Never."

"Bullshit." Larry seized her by the shoulders, pushing her back up against the wall and kissing her with a force hard enough to bruise.

Constance turned her face away after a moment, breathless and furious when she spoke again. "Get your hands off of me. You're pathetic. You're nothing. Less than nothing."

"Keep talking." Larry laughed almost manically, gripping her shoulders tighter. "Keep telling me you hate me. I fucking love it."

"You're sick." Constance said, her voice shaking slightly, their mouths inches apart.

"So are you." Larry leaned closer to her. "You can play perfect housewife all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that I've been inside you. I've made you scream. And I'm the only one who knows how."

"And I'm the arrogant one?" Constance laughed, their mouths brushing.

"Just shut the fuck up for once." Larry kissed her again, and this time, Constance kissed him back, fury turning into something else, something so powerful that they literally started tearing at each other's clothes, Larry pushing her dress up to her hips to slide off her underwear, Constance hurriedly undoing his pants before they came together right there, against the wall, Constance gasping in his ear, one of her long legs wrapped around his waist, her hands sliding up his back to his shoulders. Larry held her up with one arm, his other hand on the cold stone wall as he moved against her. There was no other word for it but fucking, and he had never been like this with her before, ever. It was rough and nasty and quick, and in the end, the best orgasm Constance ever had from just sex, her final cry of release echoing through the cavernous basement. She collapsed back against the wall after they both finished, slightly dazed, opening her eyes and looking at him as if she'd never really seen him before.

But Larry didn't look quite as enraptured with the experience. He looked horrified with himself, gently releasing her and stumbling backwards, doing back up his clothes. "I'm so sorry," he finally mumbled under his breath.

Constance smoothed her dress back down, trying to maintain as much dignity as she could manage with her lacy, slightly torn underwear still around one ankle. "It's fine."

"Don't worry. I'll leave you alone from now on." Larry ran a hand through his thinning hair, turning to go.

"Laurence." Constance caught his arm. "The Roosevelt. Tomorrow. Meet me there at noon." She pulled him in closer, her lips against his ear. "And you can fuck me even harder if you want."

Larry turned to look at her, shaking his head. "You're out of your mind. You know that, right?"

"Hardly your worst insult today."

"So this isn't over?" He asked hopefully, not sure how being such an asshole had changed her mind but glad that it had.

"It's not over." Constance smiled slightly, resting her hand on his cheek again, kissing him slowly, and not just as a thank you this time. "I don't know if we'll ever be rid of each other, Laurence."

"I'll let you get back to your painting." He smiled back, kissing her cheek before he turned away, walking out of the basement and back to his house, leaving Constance alone and very inspired.

Constance closed her eyes, lost in remembrance, wanting it back, wanting to feel like she had that day, when she was young and beautiful, when they'd felt passion so strongly that it had consumed them entirely and made them act like savages, free from the rigors and constraints of their normal lives…

She let out a long breath, almost unconsciously sliding a hand between her legs. Maybe admitting she still needed this was a sign of weakness, but she was just too tired to care anymore. She'd been fighting her whole life—fighting for respect, money, power, fighting for her family, fighting her feelings for the only man she had ever really trusted—but there was no point anymore. There was no one left to impress. Perhaps the silver lining to loneliness would be the absence of any judgment.

Constance felt a thrill of triumph as waves of pleasure pulsed through her body from her own hand, the memory of being with him in the basement feeling as immediate as the room around her, her breath catching in her throat as she neared the brink, his name finally escaping her lips in a throaty whisper—

"Laurence…"

"Is this a bad time?"

Constance nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Larry's voice, frantically smoothing her skirt back down and hastily clasping her hands together on the vanity, knocking over her glass of gin in a futile attempt to try and look like she hadn't been doing anything untoward. "Y-You should have…announced yourself," she stammered, her cheeks bright red and her voice higher-pitched than usual.

"I didn't want to interrupt." Larry grinned, his hands in his pockets, stepping forward into the soft lighting of her bedroom.

Constance gasped at the sight of him in the light. "Laurence, your face…"

"Yeah, I know. Death becomes me, I guess." Larry laughed, rubbing his newly smooth cheek. There wasn't a trace left of the ravaged scar tissue from his severe burns. The once-ruined half of his face was now perfectly normal, his skin practically glowing in the warm light, both of his eyes dark brown again, and his once-limp arm resting comfortably at his side instead of cradled against his chest. He looked as if he'd never been burned at all. "Did you miss me, baby?"

Constance rose to her feet, crossing towards him, her lips slightly parted, her eye locked on his, and for one moment, Larry gave in to the vain imagining that it might really be this easy.

But as soon as she was close enough, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face, so hard that he nearly spun all the way around, clutching his cheek as a large red handprint formed on his newly unblemished skin. Larry chuckled to himself, leaning against the wall. "It's going to be one of those nights, huh?"

"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded, embarrassment at being caught in the act quickly morphing into blind rage at his prolonged (and seemingly intentional) absence.

"I died to save you, and this is the thanks I get?" Larry shook his head with mock disbelief.

"Answer the question, or I'll kill you again." Constance snarled.

"I was adjusting to the afterlife, my dear."

"Bullshit. Tell me the truth."

Larry sighed. He had actually been keeping himself busy, even reconnecting with the ghosts of his two daughters and learning the ghost hierarchy of Murder House from Chad and Patrick. But it was much more amusing to let Constance think he had just been torturing her for fun. Which wasn't entirely untrue. "Fine. Maybe I liked it a little."

"Liked what?"

"Keeping you waiting for once."

Constance's eyes narrowed dangerously. "So you were, what? Teaching me a lesson?"

"I thought it might be good for your character." Larry shrugged.

"Yes, well, I think lighting you on fire again may be good for _your_ character." Constance sniffed.

Larry smiled, closing the space between them and taking her face in his hands, kissing her soundly. Constance remained stiff against him, but Larry didn't seem to mind. "I love you." He breathed out, beaming at her when they parted.

"I despise you." Constance said, her lips curving upwards into a smile seemingly against her will.

"Uh-huh." Larry slid one silk strap off her shoulder, kissing the side of her neck. Constance finally relaxed against him, slipping the other strap off her shoulder, her silk nightgown pooling around her ankles on the floor as she took off his jacket and pulled him back on the bed. He knew her body so well at this point that they had foreplay down to a fine art. Giving in to him tonight wasn't really losing, she tried to tell herself. Besides, she could always torture him tomorrow.

Once they were on the bed, she seized his collar, forcefully pulling him towards her, Larry's hand tangling in her blond hair as he kissed her again, Constance surprising them both by wrapping her arms around his neck as they embraced, seemingly not out to prove anything or get the upper hand, just letting herself enjoy a moment for once. When they parted a long while later, she looked up at him, out of breath, her skin flushed.

Larry smoothed her hair back behind one ear, and Constance had the sudden horrible notion that he was going to see her up close and not want her anymore. Here she was, with no make-up, not a stitch of clothing on, and her scar fully visible. But Larry didn't seem to even notice anything was different. He just looked at her like he always did, with pure and total adoration.

Constance couldn't make sense of his opinion not changing now that he had seen her as she really was. So she squirmed slightly under his gaze, reaching out for the lamp on her bedside table. "I'll put out the lights."

Larry caught her hand, kissing her palm. "Don't."

"Laurence—"

"You've never looked more beautiful."

Constance kissed him this time, and whether or not she would ever admit it, they made love that night, like a real couple, in their bed, back in each other's arms.

Back where they belonged.

Afterwards, Larry held her as she drifted off to sleep, startling her slightly when he spoke again. "Constance?"

"Go to sleep. You know I don't like talking after," she mumbled into her pillow.

"Can I ask you something?" 

Constance sighed dramatically, looking over her shoulder at him. "What?"

"Are you ever going to say it back?"

She reached back, her hand on his now-perfect cheek as she twisted around slightly to reach him, her lips brushing his. Larry felt a thrill of anticipation. Could this really be it? After forty-plus years, was the wait really over? Was Constance finally going to tell him she loved him too?

"Never." She whispered with a smirk, rolling back over and almost immediately falling asleep—or at least pretending to.

Larry looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head with a small smile.

Oh well. Maybe in another forty years. After all, they had forever.

"What did the doctor say?" Violet got to her feet when Constance left Tate's hospital room.

"He'll be released this afternoon." Constance beamed. "Clean bill of health, physically and mentally. 'Eli' has had a stunning recovery."

Violet let out a sigh of relief, she and Constance looking at each other for a moment, almost feeling like they should hug or something. They ended up both just crossing the arms and standing there awkwardly for a moment. Finally, Violet broke the silence with the most pressing question of the moment. "So what happens once he leaves? Like where's he going to go?" 

Constance took a seat in the waiting room chairs, motioning for Violet to join her. Violet sat down as well, stiffening slightly when Constance took one of her hands, looking at Violet with a very serious expression. "You love him, don't you?"

"Why are you asking me that?" Violet mumbled, wanting to pull her hand away.

Constance lowered her voice so they wouldn't be overheard referring to Tate as his real name. "Because I think Tate should stay with you. You've graduated. You have your new apartment. You're getting settled, and perhaps…perhaps he could even help you get everything together. He doesn't want to come home with me. And I'm not sure the bed and breakfast would be a good place for him right now. Too many memories. Too much attention from the guests. As I'm sure you know, he's practically a celebrity there. I just don't want to subject him to that when he's still readjusting to his new life."

"Makes sense." Violet nodded.

"Before he leaves today, I'm going to give him a check for enough money to help you out with rent and groceries and any other expenses you both may encounter as he starts rebuilding his life. And once he's settled, I'll bring by Laurence's old car. He wanted Tate to have it anyway." She clasped Violet's hand tighter. "Don't worry, dear. Tate will become independent again soon enough. And I promise to ensure that he won't be a financial hardship on you."

"I wasn't worried about that." Violet shook her head, feeling anxious but not quite sure what it was she was worried about. "I just want him to be okay."

"Then you agree? He can stay with you?" Constance smiled brightly.

Violet nodded, hoping she was doing the right thing for both of them. "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"

"Wonderful." Constance released Violet's hand. She'd accomplished her goal, so physical affection was no longer necessary. "Should we go tell him?"

"Maybe I should just tell him by myself." Violet suggested.

Constance looked momentarily annoyed, but veiled it with a smile. "Whatever you think is best, dear. I'm going to go call the house and tell Laur—um, everyone the good news."

Violet watched her walk away, Constance's high heels click-clacking on the cheap hospital tile. Now that Tate was back, it seemed more than likely that Constance and Violet were not going to be rid of each other any time soon, and Violet didn't know quite what to make of that realization.

There were still moments where it didn't quite seem like this was her real life. She had driven back to Berkeley for her graduation, but hadn't told her parents or Lexi or anybody what was going on back home with Tate. She had just fake-smiled all day, and moved in to her new apartment afterwards with her dad and his girlfriend's help. Ben's girlfriend had even helped Violet get a job at Starbucks—her son was the general manager of one nearby Violet's apartment, and Ben told Violet that it could be a great way to pay the bills until she figured out where she wanted to apply for grad school. Violet wasn't even sure she wanted to go to grad school, but it seemed to make her dad happy when she said she did, so she just went with it.

So now she had a new job starting Monday, a brand new apartment where most of her things were still in boxes, and, in a bizarre turn of events, a new baby kitten. Vivien had told Violet a girl who was single and in her twenties should always have a pet, because, as she so sensitively put it, "You don't just want to come home to an empty apartment every night, honey." So when Vivien was in town, she had gone with Violet to pick out a pet from the local shelter, and Violet, mostly just humoring her mother, had picked out the animal she thought would require the least work—a little gray tabby kitten that she had decided to call Rochester. _Jane Eyre_ had always been her favorite book from the Bronte sisters, and something about this tiny kitten having such a big, proper name made Violet smile whenever she thought about him.

And now, apparently she also had a new…roommate? She had no idea what she was supposed to call Tate now. She'd come and seen him at least once a day since he'd woken up, except for the weekend when she was gone for graduation, and when she'd been gone, she thought about him the whole time. They didn't really talk about anything big or important when she visited him. They mostly just watched TV and hung out. Tate still seemed really tired all the time—getting shot twice and pulled back from the afterlife will do that to a guy— and Violet usually ended up reading a book while Tate was passed out asleep. But it seemed to make him feel better just having her there, and she felt oddly out of sorts when she wasn't with him now. They needed each other, just as much as they always had, but Violet had no clue what their relationship was supposed to look like as they moved forward into an actual life together.

She walked into his hospital room, finding the strange sight of Tate dressed in a gray sweater and jeans instead of a hospital gown. His wavy blond hair was slightly damp and artfully messy from just getting out of the shower, and with the weak sunlight coming in through the blinds, he looked so handsome that Violet felt suddenly very inadequate in his presence.

Tate looked up at the sight of her, smiling. "Hey. You look nice."

"Thanks." Violet looked down dubiously at her long-sleeved gray shirt with a human ribcage made out of chains on the front on it over faded jeans that had definitely seen better days. She always felt like she looked like crap and Tate always looked so cool, yet he always complimented her. Maybe all the pain medication he was on was making him delirious. "So, I didn't know if you heard, but we're busting you out of here today."

"I get to leave?"

"Yup. Eli Langdon has been declared mentally competent and physically rehabilitated. You're free and clear." Violet paused for a moment before continuing. "And your mom thinks it'd be best if you came home with me instead of her."

Tate looked a little nervous. "My mom thinks that or you think that?"

"Yeah. I mean, both of us. Both of us think that. It just doesn't seem like Murder House would be a good place for you right now."

"No, definitely not." Tate rested his hands on his knees, torn between being excited about the prospect of going home with Violet and worried that she was just agreeing to it because his mom pressured her. Or even worse, because she felt bad for him.

Violet stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans. "I mean, I'm not really moved in all the way, but it should be fine with both of us there. My couch folds out to a bed, so…you know, you can sleep there for now."

"Right." Tate tried to disguise the surprise that he was sure briefly flashed across his face. What had he been expecting? Them to just pick up right where they had left off that last night in Murder House? Things had changed since then. It seemed like everything had changed. For her, at least. "Thanks, Violet."

"No problem."

They looked at each other for a moment, the silence oddly charged with all the things they weren't saying. Violet finally held out her hand to him. "So…you want to get out of here?"

Tate took her hand, letting her pull him to his feet, wanting to kiss her so badly it felt more like a need than a want but stopping himself because he was no longer sure if she wanted him back. "Yeah. Let's go."

_two weeks later_

"Hey." Violet walked into the apartment, Rochester leaping out of Tate's lap and rubbing up against Violet's legs in greeting, the kitten purring happily now that his whole family was home.

"Hey." Tate looked up with a smile. "How was work?"

Violet rolled her eyes, taking off her green Starbucks apron and black baseball cap. "Horrific. You wouldn't believe how worked up people get over a freaking cup of coffee. And it was my first day working the drive-through which is basically like being in purgatory for ten fucking hours." She collapsed next to him on the couch. "I'm sorry. But if you can't complain to the people you live with…"

"You're not bothering me. Complain away." Tate grinned.

Violet sighed, absently scratching under Rochester's chin when he curled back up on Tate's lap. "I'm starving. You want to order Chinese or something?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Cool. The take-out menu's in the kitchen, on top of all those cookbooks my mom gave me that I'll never use. I always just get Chicken Lo Mein. And tell them not to forget chopsticks. I'm going to take a shower. Do you mind ordering?"

Violet was talking very fast, and like she was about to come unhinged. Tate reached out, his hand on her leg. "Violet. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

"Thanks. You're the best." Violet patted his hand with hers in a way that felt far too friendly in Tate's opinion. He felt a stab of dread in his stomach as he watched Violet get up and disappear into her room. They were getting dangerously close to the friend zone, and Tate suddenly had the horrible notion that if he didn't do something soon, they would just turn into platonic roommates. It wouldn't be long before she found somebody else and he'd have to watch her fall in love with another guy. Tate felt his hands clench into fists at the thought. Picturing her with somebody else was torture.

But what was he supposed to do? Violet seemed perfectly happy with things staying like they were. She was hardly home anyway- she was the new girl at work, and they were giving her the most brutal shifts, seemingly as some kind of initiation process. When she was home, she was so exhausted that they usually just hung out around the apartment. They watched movies. Ate a lot of take-out. Played with Rochester. Tate loved any time he got to spend with her, but he didn't think he could carry on the charade much longer of not wanting more from her than just friendship. And he thought it was totally bizarre that Violet was acting like there had never been anything between them. Maybe she didn't feel the same way about him anymore, after he'd ended up in his brother's body. Maybe he just didn't fit into her real life like she had hoped, and she was trying to think of a way to let him down easy.

Tate rubbed his eyes wearily. No. He refused to give up that easily. She'd loved him once. They'd been anything but platonic that night in her old room, and that had only been a month ago.

He had to make her see him that way again, now that everything was different, now that they were out of Murder House and in the real world. After he placed their take-out order, Tate opened her laptop sitting on the coffee table, clicked on the Google homepage, and started to work out a plan.

"So I was thinking we should go out on Friday night." Tate finally just decided to start the conversation during the commercial break of some sitcom Violet liked to eat while they ate dinner and see what happened.

"Go out where?" Violet picked up a bite of chicken with her chopsticks before turning to look at him.

"Like out on a date."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "You're asking me out?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know we live together and I see you all the time, but I just want to do something…special. Different, you know?" 

"What would we do?"

"Leave that to me." Tate smiled in a way that he hoped read mysterious and suave instead of revealing the actual emotion coursing through him—mounting panic. He'd gotten a few ideas online, but nothing had struck him as just right. The only other date he and Violet had ever been on hadn't gone so well. And his high school girlfriend before he'd died had been more into getting stoned than going to the movies. He was hopelessly clueless about the ins and outs of actually dating someone, but if going on a date was what it took to make Violet see him as a boyfriend and not just a friend, then he would just have to learn quickly. "I'll pick you up here at six."

Violet shook her head, grinning slightly. "You don't have to pick me up."

"Come on. It'll feel more like a real date that way. Not just two people hanging out."

"You don't like hanging out with me?"

"Of course I do. But I…I think we need to do other stuff too. Date stuff."

Violet took another bite of her food, the implication in what he was saying making them both a little nervous. "Okay. We'll go out."

Tate swirled his fork around in his noodles, not as adept as Violet with the chopsticks. He felt suddenly emboldened by her agreeing to go out with him, and asked the question that had been plaguing him for weeks. "Vi…do you miss it?"

"What?"

"The other stuff. What we used to do when we were alone together."

Violet's cheeks turned red. She looked down at her food, her voice quiet when she spoke again. "It just…it makes everything so complicated."

"So you don't miss it?" 

_I don't miss you disappearing after every time. _Violet thought bitterly to herself. But she didn't say it. She just shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know."

_How can you not know? It's all I fucking think about! _Tate wanted to slam down his silverware and yell it right in her face. But he didn't. And just then the commercials ended and the show was back on. Violet unmuted the television, looking away from him, seemingly grateful for the distraction as she tried to ignore a clearly hurt Tate who didn't say more than two words to her in a row for the rest of the night.

_Friday_

Tate waited in the parking lot of the apartment complex after he'd texted Violet that was he was here, feeling more nervous than he had ever been before in his life. He was standing in front of his new brown and tan car, Larry's cool old 1967 Cadillac, now freshly washed and polished, and Tate had even rented a tuxedo to keep up the Old Hollywood theme he had eventually decided on for the date.

He checked his phone to see if she had texted him back, but looked up at the sound of high heels coming down the concrete steps. Violet appeared, looking hot as hell, but different than he had ever seen her. She was wearing a black form-fitting dress with long sheer sleeves, the sleeves covered with cool, rock-star beading and chains. The dress hit just above her knees, but seeing Violet's bare legs, especially in the high strappy heels she was wearing, was incredibly and unexpectedly sexy. Tate had always thought she had model legs—long and thin and pale—but she had never really worn anything that showed them before. She was wearing dark make-up around her eyes, and she had done something different to her hair—it was down around her shoulders like usual, but messy and wavy instead of straight, and looked an awful lot like sex hair. Tate swallowed hard. If she really did want to be friends and nothing else, this was just mean.

"Hey." Violet said shyly as she walked up to him, holding a gray clutch in one hand. She hoped she didn't look like an idiot. Lexi had helped her pick out the dress and shoes, and had even done her hair and make-up, and Violet was worried it was too much.

"Hey." Tate breathed out. "You look beautiful."

"You look nice too. I've never seen you dressed up like this." Violet stopped in front of him, their bodies not touching, but the energy in the small space between them electric.

"I brought you these." Tate held out a full bouquet of black roses. "Thought I should step it up from our first date."

Violet grinned, taking them. "No black paint this time?"

"Nah. My methods have evolved." Tate shrugged mysteriously. It really hadn't been that complicated—he read online that if you put red roses in water mixed with black ink, they would turn black, and it had actually worked pretty well. But it seemed much cooler to let her wonder how he did it than tell her about his little science experiment. "You ready to go?"

"Where are we going?" Violet asked.

"Dinner and a movie."

Violet nodded, a little surprised at such a conventional choice. Wasn't he the one who knew she didn't like normal things?

"In a cemetery."

"What?" She laughed.

"Have you ever heard of the Hollywood Forever cemetery?"

"Sure, yeah. The one with all the celebrities buried there, right?"

"Right. Well, every month, they screen a movie there. And tonight they're showing "The Haunting." The good one from the sixties, not the shitty one with Catherine Zeta-Jones." Tate explained quickly.

"I love that movie." Violet's eyes lit up.

"Me too. It's totally awesome. Especially the end. So I packed a picnic dinner for us, brought a blanket to sit on…and it's BYOB, so I brought a bottle of wine."

"Fancy."

"First-class all the way, babe." Tate grinned. "And I mean, it's a nice night outside. It's supposed to be a full moon. Apparently these movies are always sold out, but if we leave now, we should still be able to get a good spot. Maybe under a tree or something, so we can just make out until the movie gets to the really good parts."

Violet smiled, blushing slightly. Their clothes, and the car, and the flowers—this whole night almost felt like she was dreaming, so she didn't feel nearly as nervous around him. "You want to make out in a cemetery?"

"Yeah. Who doesn't?"

"Normal people, I guess." She shrugged.

"Well, let's show them what they're missing. We never got to do high school stuff together—I thought this could be kind of like our drive-in movie. Only creepier." Tate took her hand, leading her around to the other side of the car and opening the door for her, trying not to stare too long at how much more of her legs showed when she sat down in the low seat of the car.

Tate closed the door after her, walking around and getting in the driver's seat, the car's old engine rattling to life after he turned the keys in the ignition.

"This car's actually kind of awesome." Violet looked around appraisingly.

"I know. It's like going back in time." Tate checked over his shoulder, shifting gears as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"I didn't know you could drive stick. I always wanted to learn."

"I'll teach you sometime." He smiled over at her.

"Okay." Violet smiled back. "I'm just impressed you remember how to drive at all after like twenty years."

"It's like a riding a bike. It comes back to you." Tate shrugged.

They stopped at a red light before pulling onto the highway, and Violet suddenly reached across the center console, taking his hand in hers. Tate looked a little surprised, but laced his fingers through hers regardless.

"I'm really glad we're doing this." Violet squeezed his hand tighter.

"Me too." Tate raised her hand to his mouth, kissing it. Then the light turned green, and he had to drive again, so they dropped hands, Tate putting on the "Mulholland Drive" soundtrack he'd brought along to set the Old Hollywood mood, playing the song "Llorando." Violet smiled to herself. They'd just watched that movie the other night, and she had commented on liking the music. Tate always did weirdly thoughtful things like that. She rolled down the window and let in the cool night air as they drove off into a beautiful summer night in the city of dreams.

"Did you have a good time?" Tate turned off the car as they pulled back up in front of their apartment after the movie.

"Yeah, definitely." Violet licked her lips, turning to Tate with a small smile. She'd nearly polished off the whole bottle of wine during their date, nerves making her eat less and drink more than she usually would, and the after-effects of the alcohol was now making her feel a little sleepy and a lot uninhibited. "So…you want to come up?"

"If you want me to."

"Nope. I'm kicking you out." Violet shook her head with a laugh, patting his leg before picking up her bouquet of black roses. "Come on."

Tate insisted on opening the car door for her before they walked up the two flights of stairs together in silence, holding hands, the air heavy with anticipation. Something was about to happen, but neither was exactly sure what. When they reached the door, Violet released his hand and dug through her purse for her keys, but just after she unlocked the door, Tate put his hand over hers on the doorknob.

"Hey. Wait."

Violet looked up at him, swallowing hard when she saw the way he was looking at her. The way Tate always looked at her. She couldn't find her voice for a moment, and Tate seized the opportunity to go on, seemingly needing to say something before he lost his nerve.

"If this was really a date, this is where we'd kiss goodnight."

Violet still didn't say anything, Tate finding her expression maddeningly hard to read. It almost looked like half-desire, half-fear. This would be their first real kiss of the night. Their first real kiss since Tate had come back from the dead. They hadn't actually made out in the cemetery. The one moment where it had seemed like it was going to happen, snuggled up on their blanket during one of the slower scenes of the movie, Tate had looked down at her to find Violet looking up at him, both forgetting for a moment that anyone else was around. Tate had gently moved over so he was on top of her, one of his legs resting between both of hers as he moved closer, his hand on the curve of her waist, almost unconsciously sliding up her dress as their lips barely brushed—

"Do you two mind? We came to watch a horror movie, not a porno."

Violet and Tate had snapped apart, Violet red in the face and Tate furious as they looked behind them to see a group of what looked like undernourished hipster film students had set up behind them at some point.

"S-Sorry." Violet had stammered, moving away from Tate and tugging her dress back down. What the hell had come over her? She used to hate those annoying couples who were all over each other in public, and now she'd nearly become half of one.

"Don't apologize." Tate shook his head, glaring back at them. "It's called a date, assholes. You should try it sometime."

"Fuck you, man." One of the hipsters rolled his eyes.

"Tate. It's not worth it. Let's just watch the movie." Violet mumbled, the mood totally ruined as they both turned back towards the projector screen in silence, Violet's cheeks still burning and Tate silently fuming beside her.

The hipsters had ended up moving to another spot when more of their friends had arrived, and Violet had laid back with her head on Tate's chest, and they both finally relaxed enough again to enjoy the rest of the movie, but the moment hadn't seemed right to kiss each other again.

Until now. Now they were finally alone, and there was no more denying that there was still something between them. They'd almost had sex in front of a crowd of people an hour ago—clearly there were still some unresolved feelings. Now or never, Tate reminded himself, taking a deep, steeling breath.

Tate leaned down towards her, Violet closing her eyes when their lips met, Tate feeling a shudder of arousal shoot through him at the small sound of pleasure she made when he finally, really kissed her. Tate felt her hand tighten on the doorknob under his as they embraced. It was a relatively short kiss, soft and gentle, but Violet let out a long, shaky breath when they parted, their eyes still closed as they leaned their foreheads together, Tate's other hand now resting on her hip, both feeling a little frightened by how intense even a brief kiss between them still felt.

If this went any further, everything would change. Maybe everything already had, tonight. This was real life, with nothing separating them or keeping them apart, and it was terrifying to be standing there together on the brink.

Violet raised her other hand to his cheek, Tate saying her name, their mouths almost touching again. "Violet…"

She barely had to close any distance between them to kiss him then, and it grew passionate quickly. It was as though all the pent-up tension from the past couple weeks had to come out somewhere, and soon they were making out like they were teenagers again, down in the basement, their embrace hungry and open-mouthed and unguarded, Violet finally pulling away reluctantly when Tate's hands started to go to more interesting places and she realized she didn't have both of her feet on the floor any longer. "Let's go inside before we get arrested." She mumbled against his mouth, finally turning the key in the lock before they stumbled through the door together, her purse and the bouquet of black roses tumbling to the floor unnoticed as they passed over the threshold.

Violet kicked out of her heels almost immediately, glad to be rid of them, Tate lifting her up in his arms to kiss her again when they both realized how much shorter she was without them, his hand at the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper as Violet wrapped her legs around his waist, Tate carrying her to the overstuffed chair by the couch. He fell back into the chair and watched as Violet stood up over him, sliding her skirt up, sighing softly as Tate slowly slid off her underwear, his hands on her hips as she moved forward to straddle him on the chair, hastily undoing his pants. Violet's breath caught in her throat when she lowered herself down on top of him, Tate's hands tightening on her hips as he entered her, looking up at Violet as if he couldn't believe his luck. She kept his face in her hands as she moved against him in the chair, Tate trying to make sense of the fact that this was really happening, he was back with his dream girl, and at least for right now, she wanted him just as much as he'd always wanted her.

They'd never been together like this, with Violet completely in control, and Tate loved it. She kissed him, long and slow before she broke away, looking right into his eyes as she started moving her hips against him harder and faster, Tate finally unable to hold out any longer, collapsing against her shoulder with a groan as he finished, completely overwhelmed. They just stayed like that for a long while, until, without saying another word, he carried her over to his bed (or more accurately, fold-out couch) in the middle of the living room, Violet stretching out her arms as he laid her down on her back, Violet gripping the arm of the couch over her head as he went down on her, finally bringing her to a climax so powerful she was literally in tears at the end. Tate rested his head on her stomach after, listening to her labored breathing as Violet's hands tangled in his hair. After a long moment, Tate pushed himself up to lie next to her, Violet's hand resting on his cheek as they just looked at each other, silent tears still rolling down her cheeks.

"I love you so much." Tate said quietly.

Violet stroked his cheek with her thumb. "You're not going to leave this time right?"

"Of course not. I'm never leaving you again." Tate kissed her once more, Violet rolling onto her side afterwards, her back up against him as Tate enfolded her in his arms, falling asleep together in the rumpled sheets of his fold-out bed.

"_Shit_."

Tate woke up the next morning to the sound of Violet cursing under her breath, apparently having stubbed her toe on the coffee table trying to get dressed in the dark. She sat down on the edge of his bed, lacing up her Converse sneakers, already in her full Starbucks regalia.

"Hey, beautiful." Tate said sleepily, sitting up behind her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

Violet stiffened slightly at his touch. "Don't, okay? I'm already late."

Tate kissed the side of her neck, his hands sliding up to her breasts. "So call in," he muttered against her skin.

"Stop." Violet jerked away from him, getting to her feet.

"Are you okay?" Tate looked up at her, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"Yeah. I'm fine." She said irritably, smoothing down her apron, her hair in a messy bun and traces of her dark eye make-up from last night still smudged around her weary eyes. "I'm just late. And really hung-over. So I'm sorry, but I just don't have time for this 'let's-spend-the-morning-together' shit right now."

"What is your problem?" He demanded, suddenly feeling ridiculous sitting there wearing only sheets.

"I don't have a problem." Violet shrugged. "But I get how this must be weird for you."

"What must be weird?"

"Me leaving _you_ after we fuck instead of the other way around." She slung her purse over her shoulder, walking out the door and closing it hard behind her, Tate staring after her, stunned into silence as Rochester happily leapt onto the bed, oblivious to his owners' pain, instantly curling up on Violet's still-warm pillow.

"What can I get for you?"

"Uh…just a plain coffee, I guess." Tate put his hands in his pockets.

"Tall, Grande, or Venti?" The male barista asked with a smile.

"I…what?"

"What size?" the barista explained patiently.

"Oh. The first one, I guess."

"2.50."

Tate handed him a five-dollar bill. "And I'm actually looking for Violet Harmon."

"Oh, sure. She's in the back—she should be out in a minute." The barista, whose name Tate read off the nametag as being Brian, shook his head with a smile. "Let me tell you. I wish I had fifty employees like Violet."

"Are you the manager?"

"Yeah. She's the best. Always volunteering for more shifts. Gets here early, stays late. She's going to bankrupt me just paying her for overtime." Brian laughed, revealing blindingly white teeth. He looked like a young Jared Leto. Tate felt a sudden stab of jealous rage. It suddenly made perfect sense why Violet worked so much.

But Tate just nodded, his lips pressed together in a tight smile, his jaw clenched. "That's Violet. Always overachieving."

"Are you her boyfriend?" Brian asked with that maddeningly friendly smile, handing Tate his change.

"Why? You want to ask her out?" Tate practically growled.

Brian blinked with surprise. "No, man. Chill."

"Tate? What are you doing here?" Violet came out of the bathroom, pale and shaky, having just thrown up for the third time that morning.

"Just learning more about you, babe." Tate sad with that same tight smile.

Brian gave Violet a look, indicating the long line of people behind Tate. Violet sighed, stepping around the counter and grabbing Tate's arm, pulling him over into the merchandise section, her voice an angry whisper. "Don't do this here. Please."

"Why'd you lie to me about your shifts? You told me they were making you work this much."

"Tate—"

"Is it because you're screwing him?" Tate looked over his shoulder at Brian.

Violet rubbed her temples wearily. "You're being such an asshole." 

"_I'm_ being an asshole?" Tate laughed incredulously, people in line starting to notice their argument.

"Hey, Violet?" Brian walked around the counter and interrupted them, her hand on his shoulder. "How about you take your lunch break?"

"Yeah, okay." Violet mumbled, staring down at the floor.

"Don't touch her." Tate glared at Brian.

"Come _on_." Violet practically dragged Tate out the door, rounding on him the moment they were in the parking lot, shoving him hard back towards his car. "Dude, what the hell? Are you trying to get me fired?"

"Why'd you run out on me this morning?" Tate demanded.

"I told you. I had to work."

"Bullshit, Violet! Stop fucking lying to me!"

"Fine." She stepped closer to him. "You want the truth? I think last night was a huge mistake. I'd take it back if I could."

Tate shook his head, his eyes burning with tears. "You don't mean that."

"Yeah. I do." Violet's voice was cold, but unsteady. "I'm fine with being your friend, but—"

Tate hit his fist against the car. "I don't want to be your fucking _friend_, Violet!" The customers at the outdoor seating area were all watching them now, but Violet and Tate didn't seem to notice or care. Tate reached out, his hands on Violet's shoulders. "Look at me. I came back here for _you_. That's it. Nothing and no one else in this whole filthy fucking world means shit to me. I love you. I'd do anything for you."

Violet shook her head, her eyes filling with tears as well. "Tate, please—"

"But I can't just be your friend."

She didn't say anything, but when Tate kissed her, she broke away, her hands on his chest. "I can't do this." Violet shook her head miserably. "I'm sorry…I just can't do this right now."

Tate dropped his arms back to his sides, stepping away from her, no light in his eyes anymore, his voice hollow when he spoke again. "Fine. Then I'll leave you alone."

He didn't wait to hear her response, if there even was one, getting into his car and driving away without so much as a look back at her.

A/N- More to come very soon—the next chapter is already in the works! All those things I talked about in the Author's Note from last chapter is still forthcoming, and also— Tate goes home to Murder House to get some advice from an unexpected source, Chad and Patrick have an awkward run-in at the bed and breakfast with someone from their past, and Constance gives Violet some life-changing news. I love hearing your thoughts, and promise to post again quickly!


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